I intend to have two chapters of this, maybe three if I decide to write pr0ns, but that is not my strong suit so don't get your hopes up

Warning: Further chapters contain hints of JW/SH, so if you don't like then don't read, noob.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or its characters in any way, shape, or form.

A sliver of sunlight escaped through a crack in the dark, heavy curtains that covered the windows, bringing a small patch of light to an otherwise dark room. At first it was merely a tiny splash on the floorboards, but as the day wore on it shifted, until it was several feet to the left where a particular detective was lying his head. The light landed on his face, and the burning orange against his eyelids was what woke him.

One tan, ink-stained hand rose to shield tired, sore eyes from the offending light, and Sherlock shifted against the papers he had fallen asleep on, the very ones he had been writing furiously on the night before while in his cocaine-induced frenzy. He pulled a piece out from under him to examine his findings, only to be met with complete gibberish. Perhaps more cocaine would put him in the state he was in last night so he could remember what any of this meant- at the time, it had all seemed very important.

Just as Holmes was making to get up, the door to his apartment was flung open, and in marched a certain good-hearted doctor, who just so happened to be his best friend.

"You are a phenomenal idiot," Dr. John Watson spat, standing over Holmes' still prone body.

But the real nature of their friendship was debatable, since relationships were always changing and at the moment, Watson was being a bit inconsiderate, really. He walks in to find his best friend lying on the ground in a sort of daze, and all he does is call said friend an idiot? Holmes was quite hurt.

"What, exactly, am I being accused of here?" Holmes said, his voice slightly slurred. He managed to sit up, ignoring the heaviness of his limbs.

"Oh, maybe the fact that you are apparently just coming out of a severe drug black-out," Watson said offhandedly, "but also because we were supposed to have lunch with the Inspector today to talk over our latest case, and you never showed! We waited for nearly two hours, Holmes!"

The detective opened his mouth to ask what he meant by "our" case, considering that Watson hadn't wanted anything to do with it in the first place because it would be an insult to Mary and their new marriage or something or other, but found himself stuck on the sudden time issue. "Two hours? Watson, what time is it?"

"It's two o'clock," Watson said, glancing at his watch. "Why? Does the time of day somehow affect the apology you have yet to give me?"

"No, but I happen to know where our criminal is now, at this precise time, because I had it down in my notes," Sherlock said, grabbing a random paper from under him. "But I suppose it can wait, because I need time to formulate your apology so it is sincere and conveys precisely all that I want you to know."

"Nevermind that!" Watson snapped, smacking the paper out of Holmes' hand and hauling him to his feet. "Where's the criminal? What's his name? How do you know?"

"It is not a he, but a she. Her name is Marie Leclaire, she is currently at the opera house getting ready for tonight's show, and I know because the man that was murdered was carrying a gun, which he did not fire, and I can only assume it's because said gun was not a real gun but a prop gun, meaning the man was a stagehand for the opera and was blackmailing Leclaire because she also killed her understudy, who was a far better singer and on the verge of stealing her part."

Watson stood in awe once the torrent of words stopped spewing from his friend's mouth, trying to piece together the pieces of an already-solved puzzle.

"What are you waiting for? Go find Lestrade and apprehend this fiend before she gets jealous and kills someone else!"

That seemed to be enough to get Watson going again, and the doctor raced out of the room like his coattails were on fire- but that had only happened once, when one of Sherlock's experiments went terribly wrong. Once Watson got past the door, he peered back in at Holmes, who was still standing where he had awoken.

"Aren't you coming with?"

"Why would I? I already know I'm right, and Lestrade and his gang of endearing half-wits that he calls his subordinates should be able to apprehend her. Besides, like you said, I just awoke from a cocaine crash, and I think I need to lie down."

"Right," the competent doctor said. He pointed a finger in Holmes' direction. "Don't think I forgot about that apology. Oh, and you should formulate one for the Inspector too." He bounded down the stairs and out the building, leaving a pouting Sherlock in his wake.

"What are you, my nanny? Only that shrewd, sad excuse of a landlady is my nanny," he said obtusely. With a huff, he bent down to pick up his papers, thinking he should try to decipher them before taking some more drugs- that last round was still haunting him. He honestly couldn't remember for the life of him what he had done to Gladstone this time, as the dog lay in the corner of the room, drooling buckets.

The scribblings bore no insight as to the workings of his drugged-up mind, but one of the pages of newspaper it was written on, which he had neglected to read, had a very eye-catching article. It was not a front-page article, and was merely a small blip on the page it had been placed, but the fact that it was in the paper at all was monumental.

The article was titled "A Daring Doctor Saves The Day," and it was by Hemlock Shores. In actuality, it was written by Sherlock Holmes himself, and it was about his doctor companion who wrote about their adventures, but whom put more emphasis on the detective than he did himself. It was more than a one-time article- it was he beginning of a series of writings about Watson that Holmes wanted to publish in appreciation, and in acknowledgment of their bond which surpassed friendship and delved it brotherhood.

Sherlock hurried over to his desk, grabbed a pair of scissors, and cut the article out. His eyes caught sight of an old picture frame of Watson's that contained an image of his mother, which just so happened to also be a perfect size for the article. He switched the picture out, and admired the newly-framed article that he would give to Watson. The old boy would surely put it on the desk of his office, and show it to every patient that came in, announcing fondly that it was written by Sherlock Holmes himself.

The detective placed the present in one of the drawers of his desk, intent on giving it to Watson later, and went to call out the door for the nefarious and often absent landlady to bring him some blasted tea. He sat down in the chair he pulled up by the fireplace and went to close his eyes for a moment, but ended up dozing off entirely.