Prompt: Alternate. Make today's entry an AU of some kind.

Well this one got away from me, lol. AU variant of Winds 11: Once More

"Holmes?" I paused at the top of the stairs, desperately listening for a response. Mrs. Hudson had known only that Holmes was in the sitting room.

The silence told me the rest. Nerves palmed the syringes in my pocket as I wandered across the landing.

"Holmes, are you up for company? I haven't heard about one of your cases in a while."

Nothing. No reply. No movement. Not even the rustling that announced him pointedly ignoring my presence. Resigned sorrow bloomed as I rounded the corner.

Holmes stared at nothing, his own syringe and vial on the table beside him and his sleeve rolled up to expose so many needle marks. Guilt and grief mixed into a painful cocktail that made me want to leave, to turn around and never come back. For all that I had visited nearly every day, I had not seen my friend in nearly a month. This last year's binge had only grown stronger as we approached the anniversary of my marriage.

But more painful than anything was the knowledge that nothing I said or did seemed to reach him. The listless desolation I had glimpsed the few times I caught him sober suggested he still spiraled due to some misplaced grief, but even leaving some of my belongings in his sitting room had not convinced him that I did not have to choose. More than half convinced he had chosen to end our friendship, only Mary's plea had seen me try one more time.

And the hollow gaze staring through me would make me enact my plan. I lingered by the doorway until his most recent dose began wearing off. Loudly uneven steps announced my presence well before I spoke.

"I believe I shall join you."

Surprise flickered into view, just as quickly dismissed. My friend had not yet pulled far enough away from the drug to trust his ears. I waited a few seconds before trying again.

"Holmes?"

Glazed eyes slowly focused, first on the room as a whole, then on where I stood in front of him, my hand out as if I expected him to share his cocaine.

"I said I should like to join you," I repeated as if we had done this dozens of times before. The post-high befuddlement would keep him from reading what I intended. "Pass me the vial? I have my own needle, of course, but I left my supply downstairs."

More like I had left my medical bag downstairs, but I would not differentiate. Not when I hoped to use the shock of my actions to empower my ultimatum. As soon as I had his attention, he would choose between me and the drug.

Considering the vague understanding slowly penetrating utter confusion, I did not look forward to the answer I expected to receive. My heart sank when he wordlessly handed me the vial. Either he was not as coherent as he appeared, or he despised me enough to wish me dead. We both knew the danger he courted with every dose.

Though I refused to let my thoughts show. A silent nod served as thanks, and I quickly drew a small quantity into a syringe and placed his vial on the other side table. Turning my back to him on my way toward my own armchair hid the sleight of hand that would save my life, and I calmly pushed my sleeve to my elbow. Did he really intend to let me do this?

Apparently so. Extreme befuddlement watched me locate a vein and position the needle, but he said nothing as I drove the point home. A silent count of ten waited for it to take effect.

First came the peace. The world dimmed slightly beneath a profound sense of rightness, and the small part of me that remained coherent noted I had relaxed into the chair with a faint smile. All was right. I had nothing to fear. If this constituted the drug's only effects, I could understand why Holmes had grown addicted to the sensation.

It did not, however. Cocaine's true consequences were much more dangerous, hence why my syringe had not held that despicable stimulant. I had chosen something much more…dramatic to make my point.

False calm slowly changed to an increasing discomfort. First, a shot of pain. Then a sharper twinge. My shoulder spasmed, followed by my leg. Then pain rippled up past my knee and into my hip. I could not restrain a gasp.

"Watson?"

Which caught Holmes' attention, but I only distantly noted the worry leaking through the word. Apparently, my self-imposed predicament had finally managed to push away the remnants of his stupor.

Good. I wanted him to know the full consequences he risked every time he filled that needle, but I did not try to look at him. Better for him to believe me completely unaware. Pain strengthened, settling in my middle somewhat faster than I had expected.

"Watson!"

Not stronger, though. While I had not had reason to test this particular compound, I had accurately figured its effects. The convulsions hurt but were not unbearable.

Convulsions. Random spasms had grown into full convulsions, and long fingers dragged me to the floor. Sheer panic screamed in my ear as Holmes fought to prevent me from injuring myself. A distant crack suggested my hand had impacted the table leg, then barely audible thumps heralded softness around me. He must have thrown every pillow and cushion he could find to the floor.

And still I shook. Moments dragged into an age of seconds, each years longer than it should have been. Something hit the floor with a metallic clatter. Color blurred as someone leaned over me. A cracking voice pleaded with me to stay.

Then the final ingredient took effect. A distracted thought wondered just how much discomfort I would experience tonight before the welcome ease of blackness washed over me.

No. No, no, no, no! Holmes lunged from his chair, struggling to think through the fading high as Watson's grimace became true convulsions. This could not be real. He would wake in a moment, would snap to that horribly empty sitting room to find this had been simply a bad hallucination.

Except he had already woken, and now Watson convulsed after far less than half a dose of his cocaine. The same vial Holmes had used for three days now fractured Watson's gaze and sent him into the strongest fit Holmes had ever seen. Frantic movements desperately tried to gain his friend's attention, to break the fit, something.

But nothing worked. Knowing the stimulant's possible side effects did not tell him how to mitigate those effects. He had always relied on Watson for that. Could he give something? Send for someone? Would Mrs. Hudson know what to do?

Probably not, nor did he believe her still in the flat. The front door had slammed just before the disbelief of watching Watson dose himself had dissolved into terror.

The tremors increased, as did Holmes' fear. Watson's lips gained a hint of blue, and shallow gasps fought to inhale around the convulsions. He did not even flinch when his wrist smacked a table leg.

Table leg. Both table and chair rested well within Watson's reach, and considering his thrashing, he could soon hit something worse than his wrist. Every pillow in reach quickly joined the settee cushions on the floor, positioned to protect his friend.

To no effect. Watson could not cause further injury, but nor did he stop flailing. He merely grew weaker. The gasps came further apart. His shattered gaze grew more distant. His fingernails blued to match his lips.

And all Holmes could think was that he would soon lose his friend for good. Watson would die at Holmes' hand.

Why had he given Watson that vial? He should have known that his friend would never ask for cocaine in his right mind. Something had forced him. Whether a test Holmes had failed or a symptom of some illness he would deduce later, but he should have done anything but hand over that vial. He could have stolen the syringe. He could have protested the needle. He could have intervened before Watson injected himself.

He should have prevented his friend from following his path.

Something glinted at the edge of his vision, and he glanced up to find that wretched syringe on the table beside him. The next moment sent it impacting the wall before he gently prevented Watson from beating his head against the floor. Fear turned to grief as the shaking gradually slowed. Panicked screams quieted with it.

"Stay with me. Please stay with me."

Though the words escaped without censure, a terrified murmur on a breath of desperate, futile pleading. The others had certainly made no difference to his friend's condition, but something like relief sparked when the fit finally ended.

A relief that shattered when the next moment realized Watson's chest had stopped rising.

Loss rose within him, billowing and growing to a great, overwhelming wave that threatened to wash him far, far away. Broken, wordless denials escaped of their own volition. He shook Watson's shoulder. He screamed. He even slapped his friend's cheek, hoping for a reaction. Any reaction, but Watson remained agonizingly motionless. Only when all else failed did he gently cup his friend's hand in a final goodbye.

And find a steady, strengthening pulse.

"Watson?"

No response, of course, but he did not imagine the heartbeat. One hand over his friend's chest found a stronger version, then Watson's shirt twitched to suggest movement. Another attempt resulted in a slightly deeper breath, and the agony of loss flipped to fear of complications. Would Watson be the same after this?

Or would Holmes have to tell Mrs. Watson that he had crippled her husband?

Mrs. Watson. He had not even thought of Watson's wife. She undoubtedly expected her husband to return within a few hours—as had probably been the norm for the last year—but would she come searching if Watson did not return tonight?

Perhaps not, but he would wire her later, after Mrs. Hudson returned. He could not yet leave his friend.

Careful pressure rolled Watson onto his side as each inhale steadily deepened and stabilized from the shallow gasps of the fit to a more natural rhythm of sleep. His lips and fingers lost their blue tinge, and while muted twitches indicated continued spasms, they did not cause the pain Holmes had seen only minutes before. One hand continuously tabbed Watson's pulse though he settled against the settee to wait. Surely Watson would wake quickly?

He had no idea, but stubborn vigil ignored the passing minutes in favor of watching for any sign of consciousness. Ten minutes by the clock felt much longer before his friend's breathing changed.

"Watson?"

A flinch answered. Either Holmes' volume exacerbated a headache, or his friend had not yet truly roused. Holmes waited nearly a minute before trying again.

"Watson, can you hear me?"

Yes, that frown announced, though his friend's eyes remained closed. Cautious movements evidently checked for injury, then dulled green eyes blinked twice and stared through Holmes.

"Look at me, Watson. What are you feeling?"

The question earned another flinch, strangely enough. Several seconds finally noticed Holmes sitting in front of him, but a flicker of disquiet tried to move away.

"Did you try to kill me?"

Did he…what?

Confused worry at Watson's guardedness only grew as the question registered. What could possibly make Watson think Holmes could want this? Even disregarding the guilt hounding him for offering his cocaine, surely Watson knew that Holmes would never risk using an impure solution on himself?

Apparently not. Growing wariness sent flitting glances around the room, and Holmes fought to voice the words the last minutes' terror had stolen.

"I wondered the same in reverse." Because losing you like that would kill me.

He could not voice the addendum, but Watson stilled anyway, stunned surprise darting to meet Holmes' gaze. The beginnings of suspicion faded slightly.

But only slightly. Watson checked the doorway again, still leaning away from Holmes' grip.

"If you wanted me to leave you alone, you need only say so."

To leave him…alone? Completely? Why would he ever tell Watson to leave?

Why would Watson think Holmes wanted him to leave? Holmes had done everything to show how much he did not want his friend to marry, to move, to choose someone else over their friendship. What could possibly make his friend offer such a thing?

"You've done everything but say the words," Watson shrugged when Holmes stumbled through the question. He freed his hand, then ginger movements ignored Holmes' reflexive reach to prop himself upright. "I did not expect you to use cocaine, though. Do you want me to leave?"

Watson thought—

The idea refused to form, much less convert to words. Had Holmes not just said that losing Watson would lose himself?

"I would, you know," Watson quietly added when Holmes could not reply, "if you wanted me to. I could come back for my things tomor—in a few days. Leave you to your stimulant. You need not worry about another surprise visit. Even Lestrade would stop looking for me behind you soon enough."

Lestrade would—Watson offered—he thought—

This was all wrong!

"Holmes?"

This was all wrong, and yet Watson still had to ask?! Pain forced his thoughts into a single, snapped word.

"No."

That he wanted to temper, but he could not find the words to either modify his tone or voice his thoughts. He settled for shaking his head.

Relief flickered for the barest moment. Sluggish effort conspicuously hauled himself into a chair, where he slouched against the side in an unconscious display of fatigue.

"If you truly don't want me to go, then stop pushing 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, would you—" The sentence cut off with a grunt, though Watson's shoulder did not move with the spasm. He ducked his head slightly. Seconds passed in silence.

"Watson?"

A beat, then Watson's searching gaze found him once more. "Hmm?" A moment cleared the confusion threading that question, though not Holmes' renewed worry. "Oh, sorry. By now, she doesn't 'xpect me back tonight. Told her I'd…stay with you if you let me." He covered a wide yawn. "Can I stay?"

"Of course." Why did Watson struggle to follow the conversation? Had he simply fallen asleep mid word?

Maybe, but he doubted it. Lingering concern helped his friend out of the armchair and to the settee, where sleep-drunk murmurs said something about "the plan" going astray and "checking for the truth." Holmes merely spread a blanket over his friend and settled in his chair.

With a specific vial now browning in the fireplace, he could spend the night repeatedly confirming that his friend still lived—and maybe deducing just what "plan" Watson's wife had suggested he implement. That information would tell him how it had "gone astray."

Which in turn would help him ensure this did not repeat. Once had been once too many.

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