A/N: Alright- the third chapter, FINALLY! Sorry for the wait. This was supposed to be up yesterday, but I was on vacation and House was on and I was obsessing over Warehouse 13 and… yeah. Also, BTW, I made a small mistake in the first chapter by saying that Holmes, as the black pieces, moved first. To any chess players reading this, it is in fact white which moves first. Excuse my mistake, but I won't be changing it because it is slightly symbolic to my story. So assume that in the universe of Sherlock Holmes black moves first! :D

The next day I lived in an agony of suspense, wondering when I would be called upon to interfere between Holmes and his vice. It was around dinnertime that I saw the telltale movement towards the mantle.

"Holmes." I stopped him with the pleading tone of my voice.

"Yes, Watson?"

"Please, Holmes. Not again." He merely nodded and sat back again.

"To the chessboard, then?" I smiled with relief and fetched it. I played a decent game, but all the while the one thought that haunted me was: How long would I be able to keep this up? How long before the effects of cocaine withdrawal would take over my friend? How long before he would become paranoid, exhausted, anxious, irritable, tired and insomniatic? I sighed and made my next move, prodding a pawn forward. My plan to surround his king with an army of pawns was currently failing; Holmes had detected it and was picking them off one by one, somehow also managing to clear a path to my own king for his queen to exploit.

I experience a small "aha!" moment when I registered a gap in his defenses. My last pawn was blocking my bishop from entering Holmes into check. If I moved the pawn forward a square- I reached out and did it like so- then Holmes would be forced to take it with his knight to remove his queen from danger. As he removed the sacrificed pawn from the board I triumphantly moved my bishop into place and announced "check" satisfactorily.

"A cunning move, my friend," Holmes declared, pondering the board with his fingers interlaced below his chin. "Yet not cunning enough." Then, with one fell swoop, a castle I had not seen took my bishop and rendered my last pawn's sacrifice useless. He won two moves later, and I was not sore for the loss, because his eyes held at least a fraction of the light he normally kindled when on a case, and I knew that at least for that night, I could mark down a new tally in my journal.

We continued like this for six nights, until his days clean once again made up a week. I could see that each time he denied himself the needle it did not make his will stronger, as I had hoped, but merely broke him more. I think he finally began to realize an inkling of his addiction. I knew how repulsive the thought was to him that such a thing, once a mere servant of his will, had become his master. He sensed his own dependence upon it and hated both himself and the bottle for it.

The longer he went without cocaine the worse his playing became. His mind was distracted constantly by the absence of the drug in his system, and I knew his brain was screaming for more. I like to think that it was my interference and repeated insistence that he return to the chessboard that kept him focused, but at that point, it was his own iron will which fought the battle.

On the eighth day, his poor performance in our nightly game of chess was even more pronounced. I had captured half his pieces and he only a couple of my own white pieces. His eyes flicked restlessly from the board to the fireplace. I watched each movement both with a doctor's curiosity and a friend's fear. Soon his movements reached the point where he paid the game no heed, and my gentle repeats of his name produced no effect.

All of a sudden his body succumbed to the movement of his eyes and he bounded up from his chair to snatch the much coveted bottle from the mantelpiece. I stood as well, and we faced each other over the chessboard, as if squaring up for a duel. In his eyes I saw his guilt clearly written as he held the bottle protectively against his chest like a drowning man holds a life preserver.

"Can you admit it now, Holmes?" I asked him, trying to keep any tones of reproach out of my voice. "Can you admit your addiction?" He stared at me with hollow, defiant eyes.

"Nonsense. I do not need this… do not need…" he trailed off, surveying the thing in his hand like a botanist would a curious specimen.

"Then give it to me," I said quietly, holding out a hand for it. "The first step to recovery is acknowledgement, Holmes. So admit it. Admit you have an addiction, and I will do all I can to help you break it."

He gripped the bottle in his hand, so tightly I thought he'd break it, and he squeezed his eyes shut and would not return my gaze. My outstretched hand stayed empty for innumerable minutes, and finally I thought even his unbreakable will would falter and betray him. Yet my patience was finally rewarded as he dropped the bottle wordlessly to the carpet and covered his face with his hands, leaning forward in his armchair with his elbows on his knees, breathing slowly. When he looked back up at me desperation shone clear in his eyes.

"I have done my utmost to resist the pull of it," Holmes said, after taking a deep breath. I picked it up off the floor to prevent further temptation. "But," he continued, "It seems my utmost is not enough. You say you can help me, Watson. I am asking you to, as a patient to a doctor."

"And as a friend to a friend," I returned, meeting his eyes finally and seeing a grateful regard there, "I shall also do my utmost."

A/N: All cocaine withdrawal symptoms were got off of Wikipedia. If they're inaccurate, I blame them! ;) Let's see… two more chapters to go! The next one will be heavy on the angst and H/C, so stay tuned!