Prompt: luck (good or bad) from cjnwriter

"And how much do I owe you?" I asked, pulling out my sadly overused cheque book after yet another loss. Being a club of largely doctors and retired soldiers, much like myself, our card games were not as high stakes as they would be at the great aristocratic clubs, yet loss after loss would pile up just the same, and for men with smaller pockets, such losses could be correspondingly more devastating.

Still, I have never been able to resist the draw of the gaming table, and I consented to be dealt in for one more round after handing over what I owed Stanford. Surely my luck would begin to change after such a series of losses as I had suffered tonight…

I returned home much chagrined, for my luck had not changed, and instead of my winnings I clutched in my hand a note detailing what I owed one of the other fellows at the table. I would have to spend the night making out my losses. I had only recently returned to practice, and my finances were not so stable as to absorb too great a number of losses.

Still, when I sat at my desk and worked out what I owed, I simply stared at the numbers in numb disbelief. Surely I could not have lost track of my gambling debts to that degree! Why, even with my pay due me next week, once I took care of my debts I would barely be able to cover my half of our rent to Mrs. Hudson! Never mind any other expenses…I winced. I should have to avoid the club for the next few days, save for paying what I owed, which surely would raise questions I would rather not answer. I did not want it known that my finances were in such trouble. A doctor should not be so impoverished, though I admit it was almost entirely my own doing. My financial ruin following my stint in the army was not my fault, it is true, but my inability to manage my funds now that I was recovered and back to my profession was an embarrassing weakness.

I awoke the next day determined to do better, and resolved that a week or so of frugality would do me little harm. I could surely occupy myself with medical journals and correspondence. Perhaps Holmes would even have a case I might assist with. I spent the first day busily occupied with back issues of The Lancet until Holmes appeared in the doorway. "Ah, Watson. Good. I hoped to find you unoccupied. I thought we might try that new restaurant around the corner. I hear it has an excellent reputation."

I paused, cleared my throat in embarrassment and hoped my cheeks did not flush too much, though it was also too much to hope that Holmes would not notice any change in my demeanor. I had not told him of my weakness at the gaming table. While I knew now of his own vices, they did not run to financial ruin. In fact, Holmes was frugal far past what most gentlemen would consider rational. I do not believe he purchased himself new clothing unless for a disguise more than twice in our entire acquaintance, and his equipment for his various hobbies were replaced only when absolutely necessary. His only indulgences were tobacco, and apparently, dining out. He would hardly consider that an indulgence as even in a restaurant he ate so little it hardly cost much at all. I, on the other hand, could not afford even a glass of wine at the moment. Yet I was dreadfully afraid that, should he become aware of my fault, he would insist that I leave Baker Street. Holmes was impatient at best with the weaknesses of others, and I could hardly fault him for that in this case. He did not deserve to be uncertain about our ability to pay the rent when it was none of his doing.

"I am afraid I cannot go out to dine," I said stiffly, hoping Holmes would not question me further. Though, I knew well, this was likely a false hope. Holmes was like nothing so much as a bloodhound on the scent when anything unknown presented itself to him.

"Will you be dining at your club? You have been attending regularly these past few weeks," Holmes remarked absent-mindedly.

That was entirely the trouble. "No," I said. "I am merely busy." I gestured to the pile of Lancets on the table, which I knew would not fool Holmes in the slightest, though I hoped he would do the gentlemanly thing and accept my excuse.

Holmes, however, looked me over and said matter-of-factly. "Is it gambling trouble again, Watson?"

I gave a violent start, for I had hoped he would never see this particular vice of mine. I confess to anger building that I did little to control. "Perhaps, Holmes, you might remember that not everyone wishes their private shames exposed to the world!"

"Do forgive me, my dear Watson. You know how difficult I find it not to notice such things, and doubly difficult in your case as we are so often thrown together," Holmes said, in a tone of such complete sincerity that my anger soon dissipated. It was true that he simply could not help his turn for observation, and indeed, often held his tongue when polite society absolutely required that he do so. Our rooms, he had said recently, were a relaxing retreat from such societal conventions. "It is not shameful. Pedestrian, even. You are not the first, nor I daresay the last, to have too much fondness for card games."

"Horse races, too," I muttered, though I had not been able to attend in many years. Poverty had some advantages, I suppose. I ought to be insulted that he thought my shameful secret so dull, but conversely, it made me feel better that he thought a gambling problem was so common as to not be a matter of shame. It is true, of course. Many men share a similar vice, yet I still was deeply embarrassed that I could not maintain my finances in the way befitting a doctor. "I will be able to afford my half of the rent," I assured him. "I want to be clear on that point." I would not be the reason we would be forced to leave Baker Street.

"I never doubted it, my dear Watson," Holmes said, stunning me. By this time, I could say we were friends, close friends, even, but such a strong statement of faith in me was unlike my austere fellow-lodger, and I wondered again what was hidden under that cold, rational exterior. "We shall dine in tonight." He looked at my astonished expression and laughed in his odd, silent way. "Far be it from me to judge another man for his indiscretions. You know I have my own."

My eyes strayed to the Moroccan case. He was right, as usual, in this matter. Still… "I shall do better," I said. "I shall never rebuild my finances if i continue to play away my salary at the club."

"Indeed. Perhaps I ought to keep hold of your cheque book," Holmes said mildly. "The temptation would be lessened if you did not always have it with you."

Lessened even further if I should have to ask him for it when I needed funds, as I would surely be more hesitant to ask if it were merely for gambling debts. Far from being embarrassed, I saw Holmes's solution as the answer to a problem which had plagued me for many years. "Would you?" I asked.

"Certainly," Holmes answered. "If you did not mind trusting me with such a responsibility."

I waved a hand. Holmes might be eccentric, and while I could not trust him not to fill our rooms up with noxious fumes or not to allow criminal relics to appear in the gravy boat, I was utterly certain that my meager accounts would prove no temptation to him. "I would be very grateful," I said. I handed over my cheque book immediately. "You are not to give this to me unless it is for a legitimate reason," I warned.

"I shall keep as tight a hold of it as if it were the answer to a case," Holmes promised, locking it up in the drawer of his chemistry desk. "Perhaps you might look after the Moroccan case for me in return," he added.