Prompt: Brothers. Whether Mycroft or someone else, include brothers in today's entry.

"I believe I shall join you."

The words carried clearly across the sitting room. So clearly as to leave no doubt just what, exactly, they implied.

And yet he must have misheard. Watson would never say such a thing. Was probably not even here. His last patient should be arriving about now.

"Holmes?"

Unless Holmes had lost track of the day again. He pulled himself out of the receding lightness to find his friend looking rather haggard. Deep lines traced both eyes and mouth, and sorrow dulled his expression to one of resigned acceptance. One hand extended toward Holmes.

"I said I should like to join you. Pass me the vial? I have my own needle, of course, but I left my supply downstairs."

His…supply?! Watson would not use the contents of his bag recreationally, which meant a supply would be an amount above that necessary to see to his patients. Watson had become…had started using cocaine?!

No. Not possible. He had misunderstood. Or Watson referenced some conversation Holmes could not yet remember. Watson would never—

"Fine. Better a flight of stairs than all the way to Kensington." The hand retracted, then Watson turned away. Limping steps crossed the room, echoed on the landing, and descended the stairs. His return saw utter nonchalance checking the vial in his hand. "Seven percent is what you use, right? I can't match that yet, but five percent is closer than three. I shall catch up soon enough."

He would…catch up? He had been using for a while?! This did not make any sense, but repeated blinks and more than one pinch did not change that Watson expertly filled a syringe and set the vial aside. Holmes finally snapped out of his shock when that glistening needle aimed for a vein.

"No!"

Watson froze, then a blank look of confusion pinned Holmes to his chair. "Whyever not?"

"Because…" Because you are supposed to chide me for ruining my health, not want to follow me down, but the words refused to form. He could only stare, openmouthed, as Watson waited for a reply. Was this some strange hallucination?

"It would give us something to do together," he offered as if every word did not rock Holmes' world. "We haven't had near enough of that recently, and I know you enjoy the sensation. Perhaps I will too, eventually."

No. No, this was all wrong. Watson could not be here, could not be trying to join Holmes in doing the only thing they had ever truly argued over. This must be some side effect of the drug.

Except that needle again aimed at Watson's arm, and Holmes refused to chance it. Just enough time had passed since his last dose to let him snatch the syringe from Watson's grip. Metal clattered to the table a moment later.

Watson merely frowned, eyes following the syringe's path before he met Holmes' gaze. "Why did you do that?"

"Why do you think I did that?" he snapped in return. Shock finally drained enough for anger to dominate. "It was full of cocaine!"

Watson still frowned at him, terrifyingly unbothered by what he had just tried to do. "Your point? You've dosed yourself at least once today. Probably more than once. Why can I not do the same?"

"Because you hate cocaine!"

"What does that matter?"

"What do you mean 'what does that matter?!' You know it matters! How many times have you lectured me on how dangerous it is?"

"So you refuse to let me join you because I have lectured you on it before?" Watson raised one eyebrow, his tone a calm counter to Holmes' roar though his eyes remained disturbingly blank and more than a little grief filled. "Rather hypocritical of you. What if I decided the benefits outweigh the risks?"

"What benefits?"

"Getting my friend back," he answered simply.

His…what?

Whatever he would have said next died beneath the tidal wave that drowned his anger in a way the accusation—however truthful, a small thought reminded him—had not. Watson continued before he could find a way to reply.

"Holmes, do you want me to leave?"

Do you want me to go away and never come back?

Shock coursed through him, straightening his spine even as it rooted him to the chair. Of all the things Watson might have said, Holmes had not expected such a question.

"I would, you know," he continued, "if you wanted me to. I'll stop trying to catch you sober and simply leave you be. You need only ask. I can come back for the rest of my things tomorrow."

He would…leave. For good. As if he had not already. Shock became pain that dropped a hard rock in his chest. How could he offer this now when he had left months ago?

A year ago, he remembered with a glance toward his calendar. Watson had left almost exactly a year ago, had chosen marriage over their decade-long friendship. No wife would let her husband join Holmes' cases. He had lost his friend that day.

So then why did he ask Holmes to choose now?

"Holmes?"

He refocused to find Watson staring at him, that deep grief announcing he expected an answer he did not want.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked again.

No. Never. He had not and did not, but—had Watson not left already? He barely managed a silent negative.

Relief flickered for the briefest moment. "Then do not push me away."

"But—" The many layers of reprimand, worry, and fear hidden in that order stifled his words yet again. "What about your wife?"

"She told me to try one more time," was the blunt answer that said so much more than it should. "Now are you coming with me, or am I staying with you?"

"With you." Watson's attention had drifted toward the syringe still behind Holmes, and the short reply escaped with an unintentional tinge of urgency. He swallowed, then answered quieter, "If you are sure—" Watson nodded firmly. "Then I will come."

Pained sorrow slowly changed to wary hope just as tension drained from his shoulders, but Watson stood instead of replying aloud. Holmes took only long enough to change clothes before following his friend out the door and into a convenient cab.

Though one question nagged him despite Watson's attempts at conversation. Holmes finally murmured the query as they rounded a corner.

"Would you have truly…"

"Injected myself with the contents of that syringe?" Watson blandly finished. "Yes. Any cases you have not yet told me about?"

Further questions received only pointed redirection, and the discussion wandered through Holmes' recent—however few—cases, which led into one of Watson's patients and a debate that gradually returned Watson's demeanor to the friend he remembered. By the time they reached Kensington, Holmes could almost convince himself that Watson had not given him an ultimatum less than an hour before.

Not until late that night, after a welcome visit with both Watsons and a brutally honest discussion with his Watson, did he realize that his friend had never actually claimed that either the vial or the syringe held a five percent solution of cocaine.

Well that took a totally different direction than I originally planned. Hope you enjoyed!

And thank you to mrspencil for your review last chapter :)