Run Fast, Watson! Hide the Cocaine!
A/N: I don't know where this came from… I really like the title though! The story couldn't decide if it wanted to be humorous or not… I think it ended up being a fail of a hodge-podge of both… anyways. I'm not very happy with the way it turned out, but maybe you'll like it better than me. All I can say is, read and review!
I had been wrestling with my conscience for over a week now, and concern for my friend and my medical ethics had finally won me over. That afternoon I resolved definitely to steal and hide Holmes's cocaine bottle. I looked long and hard at it sitting innocently on the mantle. My hatred for it had driven me to petty theft. Before I could change my mind, I swiped it down and clutched it in my hand. I have to admit, to my shame, I glanced around guiltily as I did so, even though I knew no one could possibly be watching me. Now to find a hiding place.
After looking in vain for some nook or cranny unknown to Holmes, I gave up; for I was sure his knowledge of the messy flat would render its discovery eventually. No, I would not hide it in the sitting room. I would keep it on my person. What better place, I figured, to keep something concealed?
No sooner had I reached this decision than I heard steps on the stair that announced my friend's return. I hurriedly flopped down in my armchair, trying to look casual, snatching up a newspaper that I just managed to turn right side up before Holmes made his entrance.
"Good day, Watson," he said to me.
"Good day, Holmes," I returned. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he shrugged off his coat, took off his hat and laid down his stick. It was just a matter of time now before Holmes, caseless and bored, would once more want his cocaine. I waited with bated breath, nervously touching the lump of the bottle through my jacket.
Holmes had sat across from me and lit his pipe. I glanced over my newspaper and saw he was staring straight at me, an expression of curiosity on his face. I quickly raised the newspaper higher.
"Watson, there is something on your mind." Holmes had scored a bulls-eye, but I was not about to admit it.
"Nonsense, Holmes, I am perfectly at my ease." I could almost feel his gaze penetrating through the newspaper.
"Watson, I have not lived with you for so long as to be so unaccustomed to you that I cannot tell when you are preoccupied. Your mien is furtive and you have been reading that paper for ten minutes without turning the page. You also keep reaching for your left breast pocket, so I infer you have an object on your person that is the source of your considerable consternation. Out with it, Watson." My face blanched at this frank and true assessment. However, I was committed to keeping the bottle away from Holmes at all costs, and so I said to him,
"You are mistaken, Holmes. I am perfectly fine aside from feeling a bit weary. If you will excuse me, I think I will retire early." Holmes's eyebrows were near his hairline as I, at only quarter past three, crisply folded my newspaper away and left. I knew Holmes was suspicious, and I could not bear his scrutiny.
By the time Mrs. Hudson brought up dinner I was feeling markedly less like a thief afraid of being found out and more like my old self again. We ate in silence, I returning to my bedroom after the meal. I wondered why Holmes had not yet noticed the absence of his worst vice yet.
I did not have long to wonder because around 8 o'clock I heard Holmes call my name from the sitting room in a tone that brooked no disobedience. Running a finger around my collar and taking a deep breath, I confronted Holmes.
"You've taken it, Watson," he said. The direct approach. Holmes never was one to bandy words. "I don't know why I didn't realize it before. I would like it back, please." This was it. The moment of truth.
"No, Holmes." My friends gaze hardened, and I hurried on before my nerve failed me. "I have asked you, bargained with you, negotiated with you, pleaded again and again that you stop your use of this infernal drug, and I have reached my wit's end. I am sorry, Holmes, but this is the only way." Holmes said quietly,
"Watson, I know you believe you are doing your duty to me as a friend and doctor by keeping the bottle from me, but I assure you it is not necessary." I squared my shoulders and looked him straight in the eye.
"And I assure you, my friend, that it is necessary. This bottle," and I took it out of my pocket as I said it, "shall remain with me at all times until you decide you do not need it anymore." Holmes could see I was serious. He tried to reason with me.
"But Watson, my mind rebels-"
"At stagnation, I know. But you will just have to find a less damaging way to stave off stagnation." Holmes's face was inscrutable for a minute. Then he did something very immature.
He lunged across the table at me, reaching for the bottle in my hand. He was fast, and his long arm incredibly agile, and I was not quite quick enough to stop him from snatching it from me. I jerked my hand back at the same time Holmes tried to grab it, and it went flying across the room to smash with a tinkling crunch against the far wall.
I had never been more relieved. I would not now have to stand constant guard over it, nor defy Holmes's pleas for its return.
My friend, however, was not happy. My heart lightened, I innocently quipped,
"Well, now look what you've done. You have made a mess all over the wall. You'd better clean it up." If looks could kill, I believe Holmes's look would have sent me six feet under right then and there. I merely smiled and settled down in my chair, returning to the newspaper I had been reading that afternoon, a contentedness in me that did not go away no matter how many evil looks Holmes threw my way that evening.