Born For Adversity

"A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Proverbs 17:17

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AN: First off, I want to apologize for the wait. I've been insanely busy this week and didn't have a chance to update. I hope you can forgive and enjoy this chapter!

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It was then I concluded that we simply had too many steps up towards Watson's bedroom. I felt as though I would never reach his door, though I was running with a speed to which my bones were protesting. My ever-calculating mind told me to calm down, that this was completely out of character for my dear Watson and that cocaine had never harmed me in the past. My heart, that odd feature I am not very disposed to listening to, told me Watson was human and, as far as I knew, not a frequent nor skilled user of cocaine. While he was a doctor, the possibility of him overdosing was a shadow over my frantic mind.

I came to his door at long last. I quite nearly forgot all about the functions of doorknobs, for at that point I was fully prepared to break down his door. Thankfully for Mrs. Hudson I recovered enough of my sanity to try and enter as I usually would. I knew nothing yet - it was still possible nothing upsetting had occurred.

His door was not locked, and I slowly pushed it open with an air of apprehension.

There was not one light lit inside, but in the darkness I could discern the outline of my friend. My heart threatened to break out of my chest. "Watson!" I bellowed, nearly tripping over whatever happened to be in my way as I launched myself towards him. He didn't answer, and an irrational fear seized me as I hurriedly lighted the lamp on the bedside table.

"Holmes?"

The taste of vile threatened my mouth as I sighed in relief at the sound of his voice. It was momentary, however - Watson was worse than I had ever seen him. He was curled up in a chair, my syringe lying on his leg. I didn't even try to look at his face; instead I took hold of his wrist in an almost violent method and pushed away the cuff of his sleeve. My eyes told me what I previously had not been willing to believe. Several pinpricks dotted the underside of my friend's arm.

It took the better part of my self control to keep from crying out.

I'll admit that I was close to panicking. I frantically checked Watson's pulse, which was racing, and checked his eyes, not aware that he was speaking.

"Holmes! I am fine, I am alright."

I looked up at him, gazing at his pale, haunted face. He breathed heavily and was sweating, but aside from such conditions he was not the unconscious man I had half-expected to encounter.

At last, I found the will to speak, praying to God that my voice was steady. "I believe I now realize just what I've put you through all these years."

I stood, clasping my hands to conceal their shaking. I leaned against the bedroom wall to keep myself from utter collapse, gazing at the thin, ghost of a man seated in Watson's armchair. I recalled his frequent descriptions when I was the one under the cloud of the drug, and the presence of such traits in my friend was more than a little disturbing.

"Holmes." I started visibly at the sound of Watson's voice, strained with a tone of desperation. He seemed to be struggling for words, as was I. I do not suspect that either of us wished to initiate the conversation, inevitable as it was. Besides, how could I speak to him on this matter? There could not be a more hypocritical act.

I forced myself to be that cold, calculating machine Watson has always presumed me to be, for as long as I required to have my questions answered. I dearly hoped it would not be a long or difficult process, for it was exceedingly arduous to maintain a façade of indifference.

"You are quite lucid, Watson," I said dryly, avoiding eye contact as though it were some sort of disease. "Tell me, when did you last inject yourself?"

I could see every line in his face quiver with embarrassment and guilt. I believe the only circumstance which would have caused him more shame was if he had harmed someone else. I knew my Boswell; even this remorse was not for the detrimental effects of his actions, but for the pain he was dealing me.

"An hour ago, I believe." I registered a small amount of pride at the fact that his voice was perfectly steady - had he broken, I don't think I could have held the reigns of my emotions.

"And you have stayed here in your room for the remaining time and done nothing else?"

"I had to stay here. You returned home earlier than I had expected, and I could not very well come down with your syringe in my hands."

The exchange was reminiscent of one of my numerous investigations - I the unwavering interrogator, Watson the conscience-stricken criminal who sought to tell his story before disappearing from the pages of history and into the grey shadows of an English prison.

But this was not an investigation. This was Sherlock Holmes very nearly surrendering his composure to the revelation that his dearest friend was not as unshakeable as once thought. It is I who has always required Watson's assistance and camaraderie, and I was not comfortable with this sudden swapping of roles.

I breathed in deeply to steady my shattered nerves. If I was to be the column of support for now, then it would not do for me to be emotional. "How many times have you taken my cocaine before?"

"For the sake of tradition, I'll ask how you deduced that I have… done this more than once."

In more favorable conditions I would have relished such a question. I despised it now. "There are multiple injection sites on the inside of your wrist. Some are considerably faded, so you must have indulged yourself some months back. So I ask again: how many times?"

Watson appeared agonized, but I was forcefully detached and could offer him none of the comfort I so dearly wished to give him. "Twice. The week after Reichenbach and the day after Mary's death."

I shuddered at his mention of Reichenbach. I did not realize to what extent my little scheme had affected him. I attempted for several uncomfortable moments to express this, but I could do no such thing, and sighed in frustration. "You are truly alright, Watson? You have not overdosed?"

""I am a doctor Holmes," he said quietly, the smallest of laughs preceding his next statement. "However little you think of my abilities, I am familiar with drugs and precise with a needle."

I was placated on that point, and offered him a half-grin in response. Yet the action did not carry with it any cheerfulness. A great weariness overcame me then, and I drew my hand through my hair with a tormented sigh. Seeing my distress, Watson immediately stood - that God-forsaken syringe fell to the floor -, but now that the veil of cocaine had been lifted from his senses, the pain of his leg seemed to return in force. He staggered against me and I grasped him around the shoulders. I guided him back into his chair, but before I could look away he managed to catch the panic in my eyes.

"Holmes," he began, a sharp hiss of pain escaping his lips as he leaned back. "You deserve an explanation."

"I already have one. Or part of one, at least."

"What do you mean?"

I eased myself unto his bed. I found it much too difficult to remain standing. "You neglected to tell me that today was the first anniversary of Mary's death, you know."

Watson seemed rather surprised, and hurriedly began to examine the intricacies of his footwear. I wanted to say something, anything, that would take away the guilt and sadness that I had driven him to in my selfishness. As it was, I could only bear witness to my friend's long-hidden grief. "I did not think it necessary."

I bristled at that. "Did you think I would mock you for it?"

"No! It was not that. You've been very… happy, Holmes, these past few months. That has been my wish for years now, and I did not wish to disrupt it by burdening you with my troubles."

"So instead you steal my cocaine?" His overwhelming nature of altruism was more than I could handle. Was he so concerned for my unimportant happiness that he would risk his life for it? I was not worth that, I was hardly worth his acquaintance! I became quite angry with the both of us - him for regarding me with such high esteem, and myself for not earning it. "My confounded happiness is not worth your health!" I said sharply, instantly regretting my fearful tone. "I-I am sorry, Watson. Knowing of my history, it is not my place to be upset with you."

Watson shook his head slowly. "Holmes, this is the very thing I have chided you for. Of course it is your place."

I allowed a sardonic laugh to escape me. "'Why do you see the speck that is in your brother's eye, but don't consider the beam that is in your own eye?'" I muttered gruffly. "No, my dear Watson. I believe we are both at fault here." I caught a strange look in my friend's eye. "At the very least this incident has assured me of your humanity. Now, would you see fit to come downstairs with me?"

That strange look resurfaced. "You will not mind my company? After this?"

"Your memory is not a good servant towards you, Watson, for I distinctly recall a doctor forcefully imposing his company upon myself when I had last used cocaine."

My friend realized that any further protests would fall on deaf ears, and so with my assistance we the both of us trudged downstairs to our sitting room, my own thoughts straying to a pair of choice violin pieces that I knew Watson favored, and when he would be well enough to accompany me and a Moroccan case to the Thames.

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Just the epilogue remains!