Weird title right? It'll make sense later on.

The Gambler and the Guinea Pig

Chapter 1:

He wasn't sure at what point in his day the sun had gone down, but it was dark now. Really dark.

John Watson stumbled forward; his feet moving unsteadily beneath him as he tried to walk in a straight line. His cane tapped rhythmically against the ground, the sound echoing down the quiet street. The moon shone down on him languidly, offering no comfort or warmth to the doctor. The streets were empty and the only other light came from the street lights that littered the sidewalk.

Watson looked up at the sky mournfully. A few starts twinkled back at him weakly from behind the curtain of smog that blanketed all of London. Knowing a thing or two about astronomy, he was able to read the stars. And right now, he read that it was past curfew and nearing the dawn of a new day.

Watson's head fell limply as his crystalline blue gaze drifted down to stare at his shoes with disgust. He was surprised he still had his shoes.

The cards had taken everything else: his wallet, his coat, even his hat.

He had been warned to stay away from the pub. Holmes himself had personally pointed out that if Watson was ever so inclined to enter the pub, he would surely be robbed dry.

And yet, Watson had been unable to resist the tempting lull of the cards. A few harmless drinks and careless bets had resulted in his current condition. His cursed sharp eye and honed senses also played a role in his defeat.

Despite the numbing warmth that sloshed in his belly and the groggy thoughts induced by the alcohol, Watson had cleverly indentified that the card dealer was cheating. He had demanded the return of his possessions and money on the accusation of foul play.

But the card dealer was having none of that. One of his posse "kindly" requested that Watson leave to avoid any possible trouble. But Watson had refused. The dealer had obviously cheated and Watson wanted his reparations.

He was ready for what was to happen next.

In an attempt to quiet Watson, the underling had swung a right hook straight at Watson's jaw. It was an easy attack to block, but the blow had sent Watson tumbling back into the grip of another of the dealer's lackeys. Watson fought this one off as well but with the two muscle-heads against one doctor, Watson was slightly disadvantaged. It didn't take long for them to throw him out into the street.

Watson rubbed his sore jaw where one hit had landed. He knew that it was already bruised. Hopefully Holmes wouldn't say anything.

Without money to pay for a carriage, Watson walked all the way to Baker Street, silently berating himself to having given in to the temptation of gambling and dreading the conversation that was sure to be aroused from Holmes. The detective could probably describe the entirety of Watson's night by just looking at him.

Watson sulkily entered the apartment he shared with Holmes. It was too late and he was too disgraced with himself to go to Mary's house. She also lived further away and he was too tired to walk all the way to her home.

Not wanting to disturb his landlady, Watson crept quietly up the stairs. He stealthily entered the room he shared with Holmes, offering himself a slight moment to be proud of his unnoticed entry.

He stood still in the dark for a while, listening to the sounds of the room – a trick he had picked up from Holmes and used so often it was now an involuntary response. A slight breeze ruffled the edge of the curtain. A clock sounded somewhere in the back of the room, the walls creaked with constriction from the cold. The heavy panting of Watson's dog – he was his dog, not matter what Holmes said.

But that was it.

No screeching of the violin. No snoring. No sounds of movement at all.

It wasn't like Holmes had a social life and he hadn't mentioned anything about a new case, so there was no reason for him to be out. He had to still be in the room somewhere.

Curious, and slightly concerned, Watson lit a lamp to illuminate the otherwise black room.

He blinked blindly for a few seconds as his eyes adjusted to the suddenly bright room. Then he looked around.

His eyes instantly fell on a figure lying prone on the floor and his heart caught in his throat as his blood turned to ice in his veins. He froze were he stood, his breath trapped in his throat.

"Holmes?" he asked, allowing his body to take in a breath before cutting off his supply again in fear.

The body of Sherlock Holmes was sprawled out on the floor. The detective was lying in a rather uncomfortable looking position with his cheek pressed against the carpeted floor; his disarrayed hair splayed over his face.

But this sight was not unusual. Watson often found Holmes lying unconscious on the floor either from passing out due to excess alcohol or because exhaustion had finally won the battle Holmes regularly fought.

No, the unusual – and rather alarming – sight that had seized Watson's heart in a cold grip of fear was the empty bottle lying on its side only inches away from Holmes unmoving fingertips. A stopper rested near Holmes' head and Watson could clearly make out teeth marks. Holmes had pulled the stopper out with his teeth. Which could only mean…

"Holmes!" Watson yelled, his own voice shaking him from his stupor.

He leapt forward and fell to his knees beside his fallen friend. He snatched up the vial and looked for a label. It was blank. He smelled it for a hint as to what Holmes had swallowed but recoiled instantly from the rancid scent. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered before.

And because he didn't know what it was, he couldn't provide an antidote.

With shaking hands, Watson pulled Holmes onto his back and brushed away the hair from the man's face. Holmes gave no response, his closed eyes meeting Watson's searching gaze.

Watson forced himself to take a deep breath. This was no time to panic. He was a doctor and Holmes had just become his patient.

Watson pressed his fingers to Holmes' neck, checking the pulse. He felt nothing. He tried again, moving his fingers around in search of the thrum of a heartbeat. Still nothing. Watson quickly checked Holmes' wrist to find the same loss of a pulse.

He pulled back and jumped up to grab his medical bag. Already searching through it fervently, he returned to Holmes' listless side. He looked through all of his medical supplies but it was of no use. Without knowing what Holmes had taken, he didn't know what to give his friend. He didn't want to inject anything that might negatively react with whatever was coursing through Holmes' veins.

Watson tossed the bag away in despair.

Breathing heavily, he sat and watched his friend in hopeless silence, his eyes lingering on Holmes' motionless chest. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could do to help his friend.

Maybe this was what Holmes had wanted. Maybe he had finally ended his own life. The detective never seemed like the type to die prematurely when there were so many unsolved cases to solve. He was too fond of himself.

But it wasn't like Holmes had a good life either. He depended heavily on Watson. And now Watson had gone off to seek his own future, without Holmes. Watson was married; leaving Holmes behind. He knew this bothered the detective, but surely not enough to die over.

Maybe Holmes had just snapped.

In a last desperate attempt to reach his friend, Watson leant down over Holmes.

"Sherlock!" he cried, his voice echoing with his own anguish and pain.

Holmes didn't respond.

Watson covered his face in his hands. "It's my fault," he uttered bitterly. A wave of sadness washed over him as he felt the first tears trickle down his cheeks.

Suddenly, a groan sounded from the floor before him.

Watson lowered his hands from his face as Holmes' eyes fluttered open. With a tired groan, Holmes stretched and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck with a yawn.

He blinked a few times with a sniff and then turned to look at Watson as if surprised to see the doctor kneeling on the floor beside him. Watson could only stare with his mouth hanging open in complete disbelief as Holmes regarded him casually.

"You look like hell," Holmes noted simply.

I feel so compelled to use big words while writing Sherlock Holmes fanfics.

So, weren't expecting that were you? Or maybe you were. I don't know.

I keep trying to make those little fanfics, the ones that take up a quarter of a page but I can never do it. The story just keeps going. One of these days.

Anywho, I hope you'll be ready and waiting for the next installment,
Hobey-Ho

(P.S. I thrive on reviews and now that school's back after winter break, I could probably use the extra encouragement and joy provided by reviews.)