Mr Sherlock Holmes was a man of spontaneity and intrigue, so naturally when he announced that he was following a lead of a new case and would return when he had gained the information he sought, I did not question him but merely wished him luck on his search. However after three full days of his absence with no telegram to assure me, I began to have my doubts and worries. He was an extremely competent detective and very capable in his abilities of self-defence, yet his field was one of constant danger and crime and it was easy to be overcome by it.

Before departing from Baker Street he had mentioned something of 'Hugh Boone', whom I remembered to be the beggar-alias of Neville St. Clair. Mr St. Clair was the police-avoiding subject of one of Holmes' previous cases of which I have recorded, The Man with the Twisted Lip, and the search for him had first led my friend to an opium den in the East End of the city. Since Holmes had specifically mentioned Boone, I guessed his lead may have something to do with the man, and bravely I decided to pay a small visit to the drug den in hopes of finding where the great detective was. My desperation for news of his safety had grown too strong for me to ignore.

I set off from 221B early in the morning after a sleepless night in an empty bed, and was able to reach my destination within the hour (and assure the carriage wait for my return) due to giving the driver a healthy tip. The place was just as I remembered – the crooked steps leading deep into the depths of a harsh black mouth, the room stifling with darkness, sweat, and thick fug of the brown opium smoke. I breathed shallowly as to avoid it, but still felt the poison tickle at my throat. It was unbearably warm, so much that I was sweating – looking back, it had probably not been my greatest idea to adorn a winter's coat on my adventure that day, but in my haste to escape the idleness of Baker Street it had been the first garment I whipped from the coat-hooks.

Contorted bodies lay in twisted positions in the gloom, illuminated only by the little red circles as the opium burned in pipes, and the dusky fire of lit charcoal at the furthest end of the bunker. Towards this I drew, unconsciously seeking warmth in this cold place- so cold even though the month was June and the weather pleasantly mild.

Suddenly a hand drew at my elbow and a rasping voice in my ear endeavoured to persuade me of the pipe being held in front of my nose.

'I must decline,' said I, speaking quietly and attempting to not shudder at the acrid fumes. 'I am merely looking for a friend.'

I did not mention the name of whom I was seeking – Holmes would no doubt have taken some form of disguise and the information would be useless. This fact also did not much aid me in my search, I suddenly realised. To go calling his name aloud would only give away his disguise. There was nothing else for me to do but look around – no matter how much I detested the place.

I stepped quietly, unknowing of the inhabitants and their personal tolerances for noise and general disturbance, and their reactions if these limits were breached by some fumbling stranger such as me. I kept to the middle where the bodies were fewer, occasionally having to avoid the odd pair of sprawled legs. Glancing upon the desolate souls I was consumed with a terrible mixture of sympathy and repulsion at their waxen faces, pale eyes and low mutterings. Having governed for quite some time an utter abhorrence of the administration of the drug opium for recreation (and its subordinates, cocaine and morphine), I could not condone these creatures' addictions, but somehow a small part of my mind sought to commiserate with them and attempt to understand.

By this time I had reached the very far wall of the great underground hovel, where the fire spat and spluttered in a horribly sinister fashion. I tempted it not to set my fabrics alight and so did not venture close. Exhaling deeply, I resigned myself to the fact that upon seeing no such even small glimpse of Holmes, I had better confine myself to a different area of search, and with a clammy brow and a fluttering heart I set off back to the daylight. However I had scarcely put one foot forward when I felt a hand clutch the hem of my coat!

I jerked away in fright, but the grip did not lessen. I snatched my coat with both hands and tugged it from my captor's hold, drawing breath to curse as I did so.

'You fien-!' I started in a low growl, but was interrupted by a wonderfully familiar, if whispered, tone.

'It has not rained whatsoever in the past week, nor is it chilly; why do you wear such a heavy coat, my good Doctor?'

'Holmes?' I gasped in a hushed voice, looking wildly around me to catch the subject of the voice (it had not failed to occur to me that in my restlessness and sleep-deprivation, I may have imagined the self-righteous comment).

'Draw closer to the fire,' commanded the voice.

Following the order, I knew immediately I had not suffered some delusion. Lain on the floor, half in darkness with the fire only illuminating the slope of his forehead and the glint of one eye, here was Holmes! There was no mistaking the keen stare, the rigidity of his neck.

Remaining silent, I extended my hand blindly in his direction and felt pure relief when familiar long fingers grasped my own. He put more than half his weight on me as he rose to stand- he was weak. His leaning on me as I accompanied him to the exit only reinforced this small deduction of my own. He may have become ill, or intoxicated after so much exposure to these eventually lethal fumes... I had no idea for how long he had sat there, half alive in the gloom. Although originally consoled by his return to my presence, firstly panic and then anger took up residence in my troubled mind.

Once back to the ground level, I looked at him and saw that he had taken up no disguise whatsoever. He wore clothes familiar to him, but they were indeed ragged and dirtied. His hair was similarly wild, and he genuinely looked like he belonged from the depths I had just retrieved him. I naively did hope that it was just an act, and that my dear friend had not committed himself to that state willingly, or partaken of the drugs around him. His general distaste toward opium reassured me of this- but even the great Sherlock Holmes was human, and not immune to temptation. After all, he did by his own doing take cocaine and morphine recreationally – what would stop him from succumbing in a weak moment in a dingy drugs den?

We meandered slowly to the corner of the street and out of sight where I hoped he would, as the last time, shrug off his weakened act like an old jacket and resume as his old energetic self. When nothing of the sort occurred however, I frowned and placed my friend carefully to lean against a solid wall whilst I hailed my waiting carriage to return us to Baker Street. Once safely inside, Holmes broke his silence and spoke in a rasp to me – which I had previously believed to be an effort to disguise his voice, but was actually a worrying sign of his ill-health.

'Watson,' he coughed. 'Did you bring water?'

I frowned, apologised and said that I could only offer him my hip-flask which happened to be in my pocket, but as it contained only brandy, urged him not to drink much for fear of further damaging his state. As it were, he listened little to me and proceeded to consume what was left of half the flask, slowly so I would not notice until we had arrived back at our lodgings when it was passed back to me, empty. Although he did seem to have perked up a small amount by the alcohol, it was at times like this that I do wish Holmes was a man more inclined to take others' advice – especially from his Doctor. It would have saved him trouble more times than to count.

I accompanied him up the stairs and squeezed his hand in comfort as I opened the door to our home, yet he did not, as usual, return the gesture. I bade him sit in his armchair and, after drinking a large quantity of water and an astonishing number of cold sandwiches and crackers, Holmes' eyes regained some light and the ashen look to fade from his skin. I guessed he had not eaten for all the time he had been absent, which whilst not peculiar behaviour for him, was worrying enough for me. I collected his plates and took them back downstairs and when I returned, his eyes were closed and his head leaning against the back rest of his chair. I stood for some moments, watching concernedly.

'Watson, do remove your coat and hat and act as if you were going to stay a while.'

He obviously was not completely at ill-health. After removing said offensive items, I sat in my own chair and expelled some of the questions rising in my throat like bile. 'How long had you been in there?'

'For however long I had been away.'

'Since Wednesday, then?'

'It would seem so.'

'And you did not eat, or indeed move, in all that time?'

'It would appear so.'

'And,' I began tentatively, 'You did not partake of any drug whilst there?'

'No,' said he.

'But Holmes, your pupils are so small; your skin is clammy and white as linen; your-'

'No,' he repeated more loudly, raising his head to meet my evidence with a quiet glare. 'You know of my disapproval of opium.'

'I also know of your fondness for cocaine.'

His eyes flickered behind my head to the mantle-piece.

'I was worried, Holmes.'

His nostrils flared.

'I didn't know where the Hell you were- or if you were even safe!'

He stood abruptly and stalked out of the room with hulked shoulders, staggering a little as he moved. Knowing better than to follow him, I sat silently fuming for a few moments, knowing that by my friend's mood I would be unable to question or aid him further that day. Eventually, I unballed my fists and opened up the paper from the day before, which I had scoured for news of the detective or his whereabouts, or hints alluding to such. It took a few minutes admittedly, but I realised that I was seeing the print but reading nothing and so threw down the paper in disgust.

It did not take a Doctor's knowledge to see that Holmes was still in too weak a state for even him to seriously consider venturing outside so soon, so I decided to take a long walk in the knowledge that he had no doubt retired to bed and would not awaken until the next day. And so I walked: a roundabout trip of three miles, more or less, for which I was glad I had taken my cane. The bout of exercise, freedom and fresh air, after confining myself to Baker Street for the past few days in case Holmes should show his face, proved very beneficial to my mental and physical health and I returned back home in a much fresher spirit than I had left it. Having taken my stroll rather leisurely, I had been away nearly two hours; it was now evening and I hoped my flatmate would be in better mood. But considering Holmes' famous week-long stints of sulkish behaviour, I felt my hope was rather impractical.

After tea and a spot of something to eat, I settled down in my chair and sighed contentedly. Turning the events over in my mind as I'd walked had led me to arrive at a more pleasant conclusion. I no longer doubted that Holmes had abstained from opium whilst in that horrific den due to one small piece of evidence: Sherlock Holmes did not lie. He never had uttered to me a false truth of any kind in all the time I had been fortunate to know him. My prior anger had clouded this logic, though now I knew it to be right. My second conclusion was more straightforward: there was little point in questioning the past. He was now returned to me, to Baker Street, and that was enough.

'Watson?'

Holmes' clear voice rang through the flat. I detected no notes of discomfort or panic within the short utterance, but still rushed to the source of the sound quickly. He must have heard my footsteps, for a voice from within his bathroom called, 'Here,' to direct me further.

I puzzled, daring not to open the door for simple respect of my friend's privacy. 'What is it?'

'I require your aid. Don't worry, I am dressed.'

I entered the room slowly, at first only peeking around the edge of the door before stepping forth. He was stood before his sink, peering into the mirror at his chin, which was covered in the white lather of shaving soap. And he was indeed dressed, in flannel dressing gown.

'Watson. I have reason to believe that the close and constant proximity of opium smoke over the past few days has led my body to display some of the symptoms of the drug. My hands are shaking. I cannot hold my razor steady, and have already cut myself twice.'

I studied him for a few seconds. His face, although not quite as pale as before, was still gaunt, with dark half-moons beneath his eyes. His hands indeed shook with slight tremors, rendering a man's simple toilet irritatingly difficult- though a half-hearted attempt had been made to comb his hair, I realised fondly.

'You are lucky I am a patient man, my dear Holmes,' said I, taking his elbow and manoeuvring him to sit on the edge of the bathtub, and obtaining the hoe-razor from his pale hand.

'I am lucky to be the only man you are patient with,' replied he, a smile curling his lip.

I tried for a stern glare but failed, my own smile betraying me as I knelt on the cold floor between his knees. 'No moving,' I ordered, tilting his head back with my free hand before smoothly making the first stroke.

I continued in silence for a blissful minute or so, concentrating on my task.

'I am sorry, John.'

'I said, 'no moving'.'

'You failed to say, 'no talking'.' A pause. 'I should have had someone send a telegram, or delivered some message, or left words with one of my irregulars; of course I could not venture outside for fear of missing the information I sought- it was all in vain either way, as the suspect never even entered the den, either literally or in passing subject of overheard conversation-'

'Yes.' I cleared the blade. 'Yes, you should have sent a message. Or at least pre-arranged with me to have someone, or myself, keep check of you. I am not surprised you lost what day it was in your head, down in that ghastly pit.'

A gentle but shaking hand found a rest on my shoulder, and squeezed lightly. 'I apologise most sincerely, John. Though I did not need to reside in that den to lose the time and day. My mind is half-lost whenever your company is not present.'

I glanced upwards almost in disbelief at these astonishingly sentimental words, and found the real, sincere stare of those penetrating eyes looking right through me. I felt heat rise in my cheeks, and regained focus on my primary task. I had nearly finished, and once again rose my hand to gently tilt his chin upwards so I could make the final and most dangerous stroke. My thumb pressed against his mouth to discourage further talking.

The blade glided over his adam's apple just as his sly tongue darted out to flicker against the pad of my thumb.

Luckily, my hand did not slip and I finished the job efficiently, not wanting to add to the total of two cuts just under his left ear, from which blood still stemmed steadily. 'Holmes!' I said, mock-testily.

'Hmm?'

I wiped and washed the blade clean, folded it and set aside. 'Could you not have waited?' I asked, inclining my head to part my lips and press my own tongue against the cuts blemishing his pale skin. The soap made my taste buds cringe.

'Hmm. No.'

Raising my hands to either side of his neck I pressed my lips to his, and was delighted to feel him respond and the comforting weight of his own hands on my waist. The dull pain in my knees from the hard floor was becoming an annoying ache, but I ignored it (foolishly, as my leg would no doubt trouble me later). Holmes detached his lips from mine and instead pressed them to my jaw, over and over. 'Sherlock,' I could only gasp. 'I forgive you.'