I am not sure whether I could call the following a drabble, as it was intended, but it is certainly the shortest story that I have ever written!

The following story is with thanks to Ballykissangel, who provided me with this prompt: "Holmes does something that makes Watson very upset and Watson moves out and Holmes has to work hard to get Watson to come back to 221b."

Word Count: 830 words.

Watson and I, I am inclined to believe, tend to see eye to eye on the whole. There is, however, one thing that I fear we shall never agree upon.

"You are going to become reliant on that dreadful substance Holmes," my companion shouted at me as I prepared a seven percent solution of cocaine. "I do wish that you would desist before it takes control of you."

Scoffing at his words and paying him no further heed proved to be unwise, but how was I to know? When the effect of the drug cleared, I found myself alone with only a terse note as company. At first I told myself that he had simply written that message to make his point and taken himself off to his bed, but I discovered my error upon investigating his room. All that he could carry had been removed and I was deserted.

I admit that I knew a moment of panic. Watson has no family and therefore nowhere to go. Furthermore, London is a dangerous place and he was out there alone. Where could he have gone? My first thought was to summon Mrs. Hudson, but she only knew as much as I; Watson had left and it was entirely my fault. I took up my coat and hat and took to the wet streets, cursing my selfish attitude until my guilt and self-loathing became a mantra within my brain.

There was not a trace of my companion to be had, for the rain had been pouring since lunch time and I had left it far too long before pursuing my companion.

Eventually, I found myself standing upon Lestrade's front doorstep and ringing his bell. I hoped only that he would be prepared to aid the search for my Boswell.

"Yes, yes, I'm coming," I heard the familiar voice of the inspector grumble as he came to the door. He stared at me for a long moment and then allowed me to enter his home.

"I was going to send for you first thing in the morning," he snapped, his voice as weary as it was disgruntled. "But then again, you tend not to worry about the time and three AM is technically morning."

I apologised as I removed my coat. I had not been conscious of the passage of time.

He shook his head and lead me through to his parlour to pour me some brandy and relight the fire. "Sit down and warm up," he practically ordered. "I don't know how you traced the doctor here, but know this; whatever the two of you have quarrelled about can wait until Watson has had a good night's sleep. I think that you should go home and get some rest yourself. You look done!"

I froze and stared at him in disbelief. Watson was there all the time! But of course he was; he and Lestrade became quite close during my hiatus and for him to turn to the inspector under such circumstances would make perfect sense.

The door opened and the unsteady steps of my Boswell entered the room behind me as I crouched at the fireside. "Holmes, this really is too much," he protested. "Must you invade Lestrade's house at this hour just to speak with me?"

The inspector grumbled when I again offered my apologies and then left us to talk privately. I perceived at a glance that Watson, despite having gone to bed, had clearly not slept.

Of course I apologised profusely to my dear friend for having upset him so, but it was not enough.

"An apology is supposed to indicate that the offence shall not be repeated," he said with a shake of his head. "We both know that you have no intention of stopping."

His words cut me to the quick. I had been frightfully worried about the fellow, had searched all night for him, only to find that he would not even accept my apology. Yet I knew him to be correct; I had not even thought to apologise for my actions, for my apology was worded as if I was only sorry that he objected to them. I could see that I would have to change my attitude if I wished for my companion to stay at Baker Street.

I eventually convinced Watson to accompany me back to our rooms. Once there, I took up the cause of our dispute and threw it upon the fire. I had to prove to him that I truly did intend to change my ways.

There was so much that I desperately wished to tell him, but I was unable. Instead I simply poured us each a drink and took to my chair opposite his beside our hearth.

I hope that tonight's actions have told him what I am unable to articulate; that I value his companionship above all else and will do anything to avoid losing my dearest friend.