July 1884

"Good evening, Sherlock. You have no case today?" Mycroft asked as he met his younger brother outside the Diogenes Club.

"No, it has been rather a slow summer for crime," Sherlock Holmes admitted, looking more upset about this fact than any man who had the country's best interests at heart should. "Watson told me if I was going to 'gripe and moan about the lack of innovative criminals and foul up the sitting room with chemicals' I should take myself somewhere else."

"Hmm. It sounds to me as if the doctor is in rather a bad mood. He is not usually so impatient with you, is he?"

"Yes, he was in quite a tetchy mood," Sherlock agreed. "From what I can gather his patients were exceptionally difficult today, and in any case, it does me good on occasion to leave my chemical instruments and take a turn about London. However, I am here for the use of the excellent library for which the Diogenes is famous. When I was last here, I believe I saw a volume on the variations of Gregorian chant used in High Medieval Germany that promises to be an interesting study."

"You are, of course, welcome to use our library," Mycroft said graciously. Sherlock may not have belonged to the Diogenes Club, but as brother of one of the founding members, he was free to use whatever facilities he chose.

Sherlock Holmes, when presented with a fascinating study, was no more capable of remaining silent than of stopping his breathing. However, today, even by his own standards, he was quite loud. He did not break the Diogenes Club's no speaking rule, but made small wordless exclamations every time he discovered something interesting in the text. Mycroft glanced around, knowing he could not throw Sherlock out while he was not actually breaking any rules, but aware that many of the other members were looking askance at them. He felt a sudden kinship with Dr. Watson, who he still had never met. They probably both spent an inordinate amount of time correcting for Sherlock's more unusual habits.

After a particularly loud exhalation of interest, Mycroft rolled his eyes, tapped his brother on the shoulder and motioned him into the Strangers Room. "Sherlock, you are being rather loud. Are you sure everything is all right? You are not usually so unable to follow the rules of the club."

Sherlock Holmes sighed. "It is nothing, Mycroft. Watson and I have had a disagreement, that is all."

"Hmm," Mycroft said. He had thought he detected a lie in his brother's eyes when they met earlier. Besides, in four years he had never known Dr. Watson to become so angry with Sherlock that the latter was actually barred from their shared rooms. The man usually had the patience of a saint. "What about?"

Sherlock avoided his gaze, saying, "You know what it is like for me when I have no problem to work on. I needed something to keep myself alert, otherwise I would fall into one of the black moods that so affect me."

Mycroft's expression grew stern, "So you used your solution of cocaine?" He did not approve of his brother's use of narcotics, having formed the opinion that such things were detrimental to one's health through careful observation of Sherlock himself over the years he had formed the habit.

"Yes," Sherlock said heavily. "Watson disapproves of it even more than you do."

"I daresay he, as a medical man, understands the effects more than I do," Mycroft allowed, although his own knowledge of medicine was as extensive as any layman's could be. "Still, I have never heard of him becoming angry enough with you to send you from the house."

"I have been taking…more of it than usual," Sherlock admitted. "Ordinarily I take only so much as I need when I am not working. But there has been so little criminal activity of late that I was forced to indulge more often than even I wished!"

Mycroft's expression grew even sterner, "Sherlock, I have told you many times of my feelings on this subject. Now that I know Dr. Watson feels the same, I hope he has been urging you to stop for your own sake."

"Like a mother hen," Sherlock said. "But today he lost control of his temper. He said if I had no care for my own health, or the ease of my friends' minds, then I would be better off leaving until I had better control of myself. Mind you, I am sure I was causing him great pain. I am always unable to sit still or remain quiet for long when under the effects of the drug."

Mycroft privately believed that the only thing causing Dr. Watson pain was seeing his friend destroy himself, rather than the irritating effects. Nonetheless, he felt himself to be somewhat at a loss. He could inform his brother of the facts of the effects of cocaine, and had done so many times, but it seemed to do little good. No doubt Dr. Watson, not only a man of science but obviously a compassionate and patient friend, would be more adept at this than Mycroft could ever be. "Perhaps you should return home, Sherlock. No doubt Dr. Watson is waiting for you and I admit I dislike thinking of you wandering the streets in your condition." He noticed his brother's eyes were still dilated and knew that coming down from the effects would only be worse.

Sherlock shook his head, "I would rather spend the night on the streets than face Watson's disappointment in me, after I promised him I would begin to wean myself off the cocaine only yesterday." A sad look crossed his face, and not for the first time Mycroft wondered at what Dr. Watson brought out in his brother. Years of Mycroft cajoling him had never resulted in Sherlock being saddened at disappointing him.

"Come now, Sherlock, I may not have met the fellow but from what you tell me Dr. Watson is very forgiving, I'm sure he won't condemn you to spending the night on the streets, and tomorrow is, after all, another day. I would feel easier in my mind knowing you were under a doctor's care," Mycroft admitted. He did not like at all the increased frequency in Sherlock's cocaine usage. Usually he seemed to be able to control his need for the drug, but if what he was saying was any indication, he was losing that ability.

"Thank you for your advice, Mycroft," Sherlock said suddenly, standing up. "But I do not think I have need of it tonight. I have other places I can go where the company is more to my taste." Mycroft watched him leave, the worry in his stomach increasing. That wouldn't do at all; it was nearly time for dinner and his meal would be ruined. But he did not like Sherlock's angry tone or deadened expression and resolved to head to Baker Street to inform Dr. Watson of his brother's condition. He knew the places of lesser repute, opium houses and the like, that Sherlock had sometimes frequented while at university, which Dr. Watson would not. They could avert a catastrophe tonight if they worked together.

As he hurried along the streets, Mycroft caught sight of his brother, and breathed a sigh of relief that he appeared to be heading home. For now, at least. Before even a minute passed, however, he saw a shorter, stockier figure with a heavy walking stick and a mustache hail Sherlock with obvious relief. Ducking quickly past them, he heard a little of their conversation.

"I was worried, Holmes, when you did not return for hours. I thought you might have gotten into some trouble. Lestrade told me he has sometimes seen you on _ Street up ahead, and when I exhausted all other possibilities I decided to take his advice." Dr. Watson, for that was who this must be, seemed to have forgiven and forgotten their earlier argument; his expression was shining with relief that he had managed to find his friend with no trouble.

"Forgive me, Watson, for scaring you like that," Sherlock said in a low voice. "I did not mean to take as much as I did."

"Nonsense, Holmes," Dr. Watson answered. "Tomorrow is, after all, another day and I am sure you shall do better. There are many techniques for ending your dependency on the substance that we have not tried, and we shall find one that is successful, I am positive of it." His face showed an utter lack of judgment, a clear belief in his patient's ability to rise to this current challenge, and an assurance of his absolute support in the matter. Mycroft smiled and went back to the Diogenes in another direction, leaving his brother in Dr. Watson's capable, trustworthy hands. I will have to meet this Dr. John Watson, he thought before settling himself in the armchair by the fire with the day's paper. It is just possible that I will owe him my brother's life.