Work Text:
“Holmes? Holmes! Explain yourself!” Watson demands, slamming the door to 221B shut.
“Cocaine, Watson. Elementary, my dear. Watson, that is. My dear,” Holmes giggles, picking up a spent syringe from the end table and waving it about.
“I know damn well which infernal substance you’ve ingested, Holmes, and you know damn well what you agreed to last night!” Watson’s voice is tight, quiet. In spite of his anger he keeps his voice low. He slams his doctor’s bag to the floor a bit harder than he intended. Drops his cane beside it, pulls off his gloves roughly and stuffs them in the pocket of the coat that he does not remove. He has not yet decided if he’s staying.
Watson crosses the room quickly and snatches the syringe from Holmes’ hand, slams that down on the end table. Holmes’ eyes have fallen shut and Watson pulls one open, glances at the pupils. Entirely dilated. Ridiculous. He removed his forefinger and Holmes’ eye snaps shut again. Trails his hand down Holmes’ neck, finds the vein. Watson counts silently, attempting to ignore the shiver that threatens his spine as he stands there, hand to his utter cad of a flatmate’s throat–focus on the pulse, Watson, he tells himself.
Holmes clears his throat. Watson belatedly realizes he has been standing there for upwards of five minutes, hand to Holmes’ throat, not remotely able to focus on the pulse that he was attempting to time.
“Distracted, my dear Watson?” Holmes manages a smirk that Watson feels is utterly uncalled for. How the man manages to sound so like his usual, insufferable self while out of his mind on drugs is incomprehensible.
Watson sighs. “Disappointed, if you must know.” With some regret he removes his hand (the window is open, after all), takes his gloves from his coat pocket. “I thought…”
Watson puts the left glove back on. “I thought you would choose…” His voice trails off. Can he say those words aloud, here in Baker Street? Is it safe?
Holmes shakes his head like a dog shaking off water, and stands up abruptly.
“Watson! You can’t think–”
“What else am I to think, Holmes? After our–” Watson finds himself unable to say it. Instead he pulls on his right glove, collects his stick and bag from their place by the door.
He pauses, hand on the doorknob, and looks back at Holmes. This is a mistake, and is almost his undoing.
“John–no”, Holmes says, his voice breaking.
“I’m sorry, Holmes. You know where I’ll be, if you ever change your mind.” Watson does not allow himself to look at Holmes–at Sherlock–while he says this.
Eyes fixed resolutely on the floor, John Watson opens the door and leaves Baker Street.