Well, I'd like to thank several people who have already used this idea for one of my writing prompts - I had planned on doing it myself and had not gotten round to doing it; hope you all don't mind my using the same general principle, with one twist. I'd planned also upon using another of EchoValley's sentences from the fic, "Forty Years, Fifty Sentences" and never got round to doing it. This kills two birds with one stone.
He was gambling yet again that night.
I could tell from the lack of chalk between his forefinger and thumb and the fact that he mentioned last week that Thurston was on a fortnight's vacation. As he never plays billiards except with Thurston, his small addiction to whist (that and the horses being the only vices the fellow possesses in a flatly boring character) had apparently asserted itself.
This was in part my fault, for even I could not stand to be with myself the night before. Three weeks of stagnation, a snapped A string, and Mrs. Hudson's making cabbage for dinner all had turned my mood from black to ebony, and I frankly did not even notice when he left the flat nor when he returned.
I puffed thoughtfully on my pipe, watching him scribble angrily in his ledger, his pen making a jagged scratch in his apparent fury at the state of his finances. Heavy losses, then. He really must learn to curb that gambling streak.
"Bad night, Watson?" I ventured.
"Not a very grand deduction," he snapped.
"It wasn't meant to be."
The angry scratching stopped and he slammed the book closed.
"Well, are you going to lecture me about it?" he sighed with the expectant air of a condemned man.
"Who am I to judge another man's vices?"
He glanced up at me, the harsh lines in his face fading slightly. Muttering something that sounded like 'thank God for small favours', he moved round me to collapse into his armchair.
A sudden glimmering of an idea sparked in my mind. Yes, possibly…'twould have to be handled with finesse, however, to avoid damage to his pride.
And carefully done so as to not appear condescending on my part, for heaven knew my vices were far more damaging and numerous than that man's could ever dream of being.
I moved to the mantelpiece, reaching up for my cocaine-bottle and Moroccan case.
Interestingly enough, I saw the protest rise and die upon his lips as he realised how hypocritical it would be to voice said protest at that particular moment.
I turned and tossed the items to him, receiving a dumbfounded look in return. I kept my hand outstretched.
"Hand over your cheque-book, and we'll see who breaks first. Eh, Watson?"
From the sudden gleam in his eyes, I knew that either the challenge or the idea of keeping me from my cocaine had won his interest. He reached for his cheque-book and I smiled, knowing I should not have to go without the drug for long.
Six months later, I am very much wishing I had never made that bargain.