Prompt at end of chapter.
Flatmates
"Sorry to bother you again, sir," the ferret-faced young inspector said solicitously. "Just need to be sure I've got the details right. You understand. Cross the T's and dot the I's."
"Of course, Inspector," the man with the sun-darkened skin and somewhat sunken cheeks said, getting his pipe from his pocket. "Ask anything you like. I will tell you what I know."
"Thank you, sir. Now you say your name is Watson. Is that right?"
"John Hamish Watson. That's right."
"And you are a doctor?"
"Late of the Army Medical Department. After Maiwand, I was invalided home."
"I see. So, you are not practicing now."
"No. When I recover my strength, I will likely return to it."
"Very good." The inspector made a note in his pad. "I understand from your landlady that you and the deceased shared this flat for the last six months. Is that correct?"
"It is."
"Had you known the gentleman for long?"
"No. We were introduced by a mutual friend."
"Forgive me for saying so, but that seems a bit unusual."
"I suppose it is. You see, on my pension I could not long afford to live in London, and he was looking for someone to share rooms with for similar reasons."
"Ah. A union of convenience."
"Yes." Watson chuckled politely and lit his pipe. "You could put it that way."
"Well, in those six months, Doctor, had you noted this particular habit?"
"I would call it an addiction, Inspector. To answer you, though, he made little secret of it. I disapproved, of course, but he would not listen to reason."
"No. They rarely do. In my line, I see this sort of thing often. Sad, but it is true."
Making sympathetic noises, Watson nodded.
"An odd thing, though, Doctor."
"What is?"
"The morocco case in which the syringes were kept has J.H.W. stamped on it in gold."
"What?"
"Did you not notice it missing?"
"I haven't had my bag out in months." Watson fished in his pocket and produced a small ring of keys. "Here they are. Yes. This is the key to my cupboard."
"Is that where your bag is kept, sir?"
"It is. Follow me. I'll show you."
Entering the doctor's bedroom, they found it in its usual tidy order; bed made, basin clean and dry atop a low cupboard that served as dresser. The cupboard door stood closed.
"See. Just as I left it." Watson stepped towards the cupboard as if to unlock it, but the inspector put out a hand.
"A moment, Doctor," said he. "If you'd be so good as to hand me the key, I'll open it."
"As you like," said Watson. "Here it is. The little brass one."
The inspector went to one knee in front of the cupboard and paused to examine the keyhole. He hesitated a long moment then reached out and tugged on the ceramic knob. The door, without being unlocked, swung open.
"What the devil?" Watson demanded, stepping up behind the inspector.
"Forced, Doctor. See here? Scrapes in the wood. Something has been pushed between the panel and the jamb and the latch was levered up."
"You mean he broke into my cupboard?"
"So it seems." The inspector turned keen eyes upon the doctor. "Has he ever done anything like this before?"
Watson straightened and drew back, his expression reluctant.
"Well, sir?"
"I do not wish to speak ill of the dead."
"Doctor, this is a police investigation. I understand you not wanting to make scandal, but I must know. Has he ever done anything like this before?"
"I believe he had. Yes."
"You believe he had?"
"I discovered some of my supplies had gone missing. They are expensive and I could not afford to replace them, you see, so I was keeping them until I could return to practice. Certain drugs lose their potency with time. It was necessary for me to inspect them periodically. I noticed some were missing. That is why I began locking the cupboard."
"How long ago was that?"
"Three months ago. I never mentioned it to him. I was concerned that I might have imagined it. I am not as sharp as I was before the enteric fever."
"I see." The inspector turned his attention back to the cupboard a moment, rubbing his chin. "Well, Doctor, it seems you were right after all."
"I wish I was not."
"Don't blame yourself, sir. No. If he couldn't get the drugs from you, he would have got them elsewhere. I've known men that turned to crime to get what they craved."
"It's difficult to believe from him, though, I suppose…"
"What, Doctor?" the inspector faced him again. "You suppose what?"
"Well, some of the company he kept."
"Bad?"
"Some seemed perfectly upright. There were those that were positively seedy, though. Ragamuffins and rapscallions. The sort you might meet on a pirate ship rather than a city street."
"That fits with what your landlady said. Yes, Doctor. I think your flatmate was not actually a nice fellow for you to associate with."
"It seems not." Watson sighed. He suddenly looked even more worn down than when the inspector had arrived.
"Come, sir. They'll soon take him away. Come down to the parlor with me and try to put this out of your mind. Just let me make certain I have the name spelt correctly for my report."
"M-O-R-I-A-R-T-Y. Moriarty. First name was James."
"Inspector?" called a tall lean man with dark hair, an aquiline nose and piercing grey eyes that seemed to run over Watson and take in every detail.
"Who's he?" Watson whispered to the ferret-faced inspector.
"An associate of sorts, Doctor."
"Not with the police?"
"No. He has some interesting notions about detection. Not as smart as he likes to pretend, but I find him useful from time to time. Excuse me a moment."
Watson observed the two in conversation for several minutes. The tall man indicated the needle marks in Moriarty's arm. He asked several questions to which the inspector answered in the negative and dismissed. The inspector displayed his notepad and gestured in Watson's direction. The tall man drew up to his full height and gazed upon Watson quite earnestly. Finally, a thin smile creased his lips, and he nodded once. Evidently, the inspector viewed this is capitulation for he strode off, chin high and his narrow chest puffed out as far as it would go. Once the inspector exited the flat, the tall man crossed to offer Watson a cigarette.
"Thank you," Watson said coolly, accepting the cigarette.
"Oh no. Thank you, Doctor. You've saved me a great deal of trouble."
"I have?"
"Indeed." The tall man produced a box of matches and lit Watson's cigarette. "My name is Sherlock Holmes. I understand you are in need of someone to go halves with on this flat."
Prompt from sirensbane: Watson ends up rooming with Moriarty instead of Sherlock Holmes
AN: I was tempted to write this as a twisted sort of Friends episode. I rather prefer this outcome, though.