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Dr. Watson, ICU stat.

The overhead page sounded again, per protocol, interrupting John’s cup of coffee. He checked his pager, which was also just sounding. Never good when the overhead came first, he thought, already on his feet and striding into the hallway outside the vending room. When staff paged overhead, it meant there wasn’t enough time to wait for the beeper or text system to work correctly, that his presence was needed more urgently.

He’d only been hospital staff just over a month, his buddy Mike Stamford having suggested the position to hospital administration. The interview process was smooth, the position of Intensivist newly opened, and when they’d offered it, John snatched it. After months of inactivity, followed by physical rehab, his body was finally ready to catch up to his sharp physician mind. And, his therapist Ella had agreed that his emotional state of being was ready, as well. The first few weeks had been full of new information, names, faces, locations, but now that he was acclimated, he knew the role had been a Godsend on many levels. His cane had finally been relegated to a corner of his office, hopefully to remain there as decorative rather than a functional piece of equipment. The limp, he was grateful in realizing, was less and less pronounced, only showing up after hours on his feet and kilometers of walking.

His badge enabled quick access to the ICU via the back hallway, and as he arrived on scene, there was no question that something was indeed going on. Raised voices were carrying out of room 2103, and campus security was arriving, radios chirping. One of the nurses John had just met - Chloe? Cloris? - saw him, relief evident on her face, and she briefed him. “No change on the patient, but there’s a detective who wants to interview him. Immediately. And he won’t go away.”

The patient was intubated, non-responsive, sedated, and poorly perfusing. Medication kept him from wasting energy on anything but vital functions, and his arms were secured to prevent injury or tube dislodgement. Communication was out of the question. John moved to the bedside, where a detective and a civilian stood toe to toe with one of the other nurses. Having admitted the patient just hours previously, John knew the circumstances well, tapped the policeman on the sleeve. “I need to see you. Now.” He took a step back, waited for the men to step into line behind him, and when only one complied, he tapped the other one, “This way, please.” There was reluctant, huffy obedience on the part of the taller one, the civilian, who flung his coat over an arm and followed grudgingly, and John's dislike kicked in full force. Authority was meant to be harkened to, and he would tolerate no less.

John led them to the hallway. “Leave your contact information. I will call you when the patient is stable enough for you to interview. Certainly not today. Perhaps not anytime soon. He is critical, you know.” His tone was cold, clipped. He did not leave things open for discussion, thought about engaging them on visitor policies and their lack of security tags for non-family members in the ICU, but decided against it. His energy, he knew, would be best left for other pursuits. High alert alarms were sounding in a room across the hallway, immediately addressed by keen nursing staff, silenced. He heard words including “I need levophed” and “he’s desaturating” that required his attention, spurred him into action, stepping around the much less urgent situation he considered addressed, handled. Across the hall, his emergency training kicked into the foreground, as he quickly assessed the instability of the situation, gave a few terse orders and watched the clinical deterioration become an all out cardiac arrest. The team he’d become conjoined with ran efficiently, his orders carefully followed and anticipated by years of nursing experience, the chest tube tray in his hand before he’d actually asked for it. Emergency thoracentesis, relief of hemo-pneumothorax, almost immediate stabilization. John left the patient in competent hands while he stepped to the desk computer to enter electronic orders, document findings, and address stat issues.

The civilian approached, and John could scarcely believe the arrogant nerve.

“John” the man began, his scarf and coat seeming ridiculously out of place, John thought, as he realized how warm he was.

“Dr Watson.” He offered again in clipped tones, making eye contact enough to convey disinterested annoyance. He wished for a moment he still held military rank, because Captain Watson would never have tolerated this behavior. If you were in my unit, there would be threat of dire consequence for insubordination.

“I'm sorry about your injury in ...Iraq, was it?”

“Afghanistan. And I do not have time for this. Get out.” John turned his attention back to the computer, entered a few things, eyeballed the patient in the room behind his shoulder, and assessed stabilizing vital signs and overall a decreased alarm regarding the patient’s clinical picture. After a few moments, a quickly and efficiently typed progress note, he stepped back into the room, where, clearly, the nurses had things well in hand and thanked him for quick response and assistance. John turned to leave, wondering where his coffee had disappeared to and where the nearest microwave was located.

Tall man, coat, scarf handed him his coffee. And it was indeed his own, unique mug and all. He could feel his jaw clench in irritation.

“Thank you.” He was far too civilized to be a complete jerk. “Mr....?”

“Holmes.” His head inclined toward the room where the other patient lay, unmoving except for ventilator assisted chest rise. He held his mobile, hit a few buttons with minimal movement. “My contact information. For when he is awake.” John’s cell buzzed, an incoming text tone. “Now you have it.”

“And you got my mobile how?” He left the mobile in his pocket, very aware of the presence of an enemy as surely as he would have been certain of it in Afghanistan. Threatened. High alert. Vigilant.

“Oh please. Tedious. Call sheets are everywhere here.”

The charge nurse appeared at John’s elbow, addressed him quietly. “Lost another line, John. Triple lumen?” She punctuated the question with a smile.

He set down his coffee. “Of course.” Meeting Sherlock’s penetrating gaze, both of them overtly aware of the familiar use of his first name non-corrected, as well as his willingness to lend assistance, he took the proffered central line kit and followed her back into the patient’s room, whisking the curtain closed behind them.

++

The next time their paths crossed, John was no less busy than he’d been that day and Sherlock was in an equally stormy mood. Sherlock had arrived on the unit just as John was leaving the patient in question’s room.

“You know, nicotine patches are supposed to be tapered. One at a time.” John nearly snarled. “Last time you were here, there were two. Today there are also two, same dosages.” Sherlock just stared. “You have heard of following directions, yeah?”

“You’re due for pain medication. Your shoulder is bothering you and you’re being snarky because of it.” Sherlock did not let the possibility of quite a delightful argument sidetrack him for long. The patient was awake, able to speak, and he had a long mental list of questions. “Excuse me, please, Dr. Watson,” he intoned, attitude dripping from the emphasis of his words.

“Don’t visit long. Patients tire easily, need their rest.” In the brief moment that Sherlock debated on engaging in the argument, opted not to, John continued. “Five minutes. My unit, my rules.”

As John had done the previous time they’d seen each other, Sherlock swirled into the room, coat behind him, and whisked the curtain closed, effectively closing the conversation and sealing John’s annoyance.

By the time John reached his office down the hall, not that he spent much time there, he was mostly in patient rooms or on nursing units, where he functioned best, he had breathed himself much calmer. Heart rate slowed, skin less tingly, less tension in his carriage. Although, John realized, he was uncomfortable and his shoulder was dreadfully hurting. The chest compressions he’d assisted with - because good grief, in a long code, everyone took turns - the previous shift had not been kind to healing tissues. It did gall him more than a little to reach for his mildest pain medications. There were too many hours left in his shift and too many potential confrontations to be in pain for the entire remainder.

He logged on the computer, checked email briefly, signed some incomplete forms regarding his upcoming credentialling, and managed to return one phone call before his mobile summoned him back to the cardio-thoracic unit this time, the secure, encrypted text giving a few details. Nothing terribly urgent, but he exited his office to find Sherlock Holmes hovering in the hallway, obviously waiting. The fact that he was waiting was either an aberrancy, or he’d only just arrived to the hallway. John favored the last option, as he didn’t think interrupting would be something that man would think twice about.

“So you’ve taken something for pain, then.”

John leveled a look at him, feeling the tension again between his shoulder blades. And behind his eyes.

“I wanted to ask you something about Mr. Hansen, Carl Hansen, the man upstairs?”

“Go ahead. I probably can’t tell you anything, however.” When Sherlock looked puzzled. “Confidentiality and all. If you had official Yard representation, maybe. But not until. You’re a consultant, as I understand it.”

There was a smirk then. “So you’ve been asking about me, then.” He stood upright, then, to his full height, and asked about whether the patient had been evaluated for competency since awakening.

“I don’t believe he has. It’s only been a few days. And there have been no decisions that would have required it.” John weighed his words carefully. For obvious reasons. “And be careful of what you might really be asking. Competence is defined legally; you might be asking more about mental capacity?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I’m well aware of the difference.” He continued. “Dr. Watson.” Identifying snarkiness was easy in the other man, Sherlock realized with more self-awareness than he’d admit to, because it was pretty much a background condition for himself too. “Just was hoping you’d consider it. He’s certainly not totally oriented yet. It is likely, as a part of this investigation through Scotland Yard, that I will return tomorrow.” His emphasis on the Scotland Yard was delivered without quite so much attitude. He held out a forearm, waited for John to look down to confirm the removal of one of his nicotine patches. John did not engage on the topic of nicotine patches. “Oh, and how many kidneys does Mr. Hansen have?”

“Two of course. We all do. Most of the time anyway.” John paused then. “Why?”

“Because I think you might find he only has one.” Sherlock strode off down the hallway, no formal words of parting. John headed to the CT unit, addressed the needs there, returned to the ICU. Mr. Hansen’s condition was unchanged, he was asleep. John touched base with a few of the sicker patients, then opened the record for Mr. Hansen. No imaging had been done of the man’s abdomen or pelvis. John checked the chemistries indicating renal function, finding it marginal but unchanged, ordered a KUB for the morning. Given the history, it was standard, routine, expected. Or at least John told himself.

++

When the radiologist called him the next morning with a wet reading on the film on Mr. Hansen, he was first off not surprised, and second, and more importantly, now extremely curious how Sherlock had known. Or guessed. His patient load was likely going to take him from busy to chaotic most of the hours there, and he opted, while thinking about it, to follow up.

One kidney. How did you know?

Dinner, and I’ll explain. Meet me at Angelo’s, 7 pm -SH

Fine.

The mobile went in his pocket as he began rounds with the charge nurse in the ICU. It was a token idea, rather ineffective, because he had yet to see more than one patient before an interruption took him a different direction and the day began in earnest.

The day was punctuated in peaks and flurries of activity between the units, beginning with a combative synthetic marijuana overdose who deteriorated from unstable to status epilepticus, unresponsive to anti seizure medication and expired. His parents claimed they had no idea he was using. Immediately after lunch a post operative CABG started hemorrhaging about an hour post op, and, while the crisis was managed by the cardiothoracic surgeons, John assisted with medical management of other comorbidities. A return to the operative suite - and multiple units of blood transfusion - seemed to restore equilibrium in that case. Just prior to dinner, John was called to the ICU, where a newly admitted patient with urosepsis was showing signs of decompensation. His blood pressure was perilously low, his breathing labored, his chemistries abnormal. By the time John wrote orders that would no doubt keep the staff busy for several hours, it was going to be a tight call for dinner. He sent off a warning text advising Sherlock Holmes he was on his way but not going to be early.

The answer, the same monosyllabic response John had given earlier, Fine. -SH

Arriving at Angelo’s only several minutes late, he found his dinner companion already seated, head down, intent on his mobile. The owner, apparently, was expecting him and showed him to the table.

“Dr. Watson,” the detective spoke as John arrived to table.

“John.”

There was a slight head tilt at that, perhaps unexpected, and it was repeated, “John.”

A bit of small talk ensued, then, between the owner and the table occupants, with an apology there was no candle, and how wonderful that they were there on a date, and that he would be right over with the wine.

John’s head raised a bit in surprise, then, and he considered correcting the man. And it seemed, looking across the table, that it was somewhat expected, but John kept silent as a bottle of wine was opened, then, menus delivered.

“No complaints?”

John smirked, just a bit. “No matter to me. It’s all fine.” He really, after the day he’d had, life and death in the balance, win-some and lose-some, didn’t give a royal piss what people thought. “Good wine. Your choice, Mr. Holmes?”

“Sherlock.”

“Family name, then?”

“No. Born with lots of hair.”

“Only child?” John would’ve laid money on that, thinking it would explain the spoiled sense of entitlement that the man exuded.

“No, older brother. Pain in my...” He let the phrase trail off. He flipped open the menu, closed it, took a sip of wine. “Sounds like your day was busy?”

John felt like they were dancing around the elephant in the room. “Why are we here?” he asked, quietly, in low tones. Pale blue eyes met his, held, definitely longer than necessary, longer than was comfortable. A power play, then, John realized.

“Because having a solitary kidney is fascinating?”

“Not especially. Even when you try to make it so.”

“Because I’m surrounded by imbeciles and morons all day, every day, with rare exception.”

“I’m a rare exception, then?”

Angelo arrived back at the table, and the gaze was broken. John ordered chicken parm, and Sherlock pasta fagioli. After ordering, John leaned back slightly, feeling somewhat better as the hectic day eased off him. The wine indeed was smooth, relaxing, and he cautioned himself against too much on an empty stomach. It was rare for him as well to feel the need to stay completely with head in the game, keep his wits, hang onto his edge. While he had much more verbal filter than his dinner partner, there were undoubtedly times even he felt outnumbered by people trying to catch up with him. The steely eyes that looked back at him seemed predatory, and he set the wine down, reached for water until he realized that Sherlock was well aware of his rationale. He saw quite a bit.

There was a clench of his jaw, he knew, and he muttered, “Okay, that point goes to you, then.” John set the water back down. Step it up, he cautioned himself. Deep breath, biofeedback, his heart rate slowed slightly. Posture relaxed.

The smile he was rewarded with eased the discomfort of tipping his hand, as he took in the countenance of the other man. Dark curls, probably more product in them than John had used cumulatively in his lifetime, framed high cheekbones and very alive eyes. Even teeth, mouth that intrigued, lips that almost teased as he took a sip from his own glass. “You’re not on call, then?”

“No. Phone might ring for a rare emergency. Unlikely.”

Off in the corner, across the room, one of the patrons coughed intensely, violently, a few times, then eased and John’s radar activated, inclining his head just slightly, listening, waiting. Sherlock noticed, of course, eyes flicking to the patron in question. “Sixties. Overweight, perhaps obese, can’t see the gut. Smoker. Balding. Here with his wife, who is almost certainly cheating on him.”

“Emphysema.” The telltale sign of harsh cough with air trapping had been audible.

“Your phone doesn’t have to ring for there to be an emergency, you know.”

“Of course. And it follows me regularly.” He stretched, casually turning his head to see the man Sherlock had been describing. “Used an AED at the airport last time I flew, wasn’t even late for my flight.” They shared a smile. John considered sliding his foot over across the floor to intersect with Sherlocks, just for curiosity’s sake. “So on another note, when was the last time you were at a physicians?” That was a surprising question, John saw, as Sherlock’s brain engaged, trying to figure out the intent of the question. John decided to wait. Some rather interesting signals being conveyed here as their eyes lingered just a touch long.

“You can if you want to, you know.”

“I can what?”

“Your foot. It’s fine.”

John shook his head slightly, unable to stop the partial smile. “That’s amazing.”

“You do know you said that aloud?”

“What do people usually say?”

“I have no idea, usually I’d have long since walked away.” The chemistry across the table was nearly palpable.

“Physician?” John prompted, reminding him of the previously unanswered question.

“For myself? I never go. Why?”

“You should probably have an echocardiogram.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh please.”

“How tall are you?”

“What?”

John took a deep breath, willed himself to relax, waited.

“Six foot four.”

“Ever measure your wingspan?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Perhaps if you saw a physician from time to time...” He let the sentence trail off.

“Bring a tape measure? You’re welcome to measure anything you like.”

A snort of laughter came out before he could stop it, just briefly, until he schooled his expression. He was extremely glad he hadn’t just taken a bite or sip of anything. “Do you have pectus excavatum?”

“That’s a rather personal question, for a first date.” His eyebrow raised, as if daring John to comment.

For a brief second, John wasn’t sure if he was kidding, decided to play along, and he paused. He pursed a lip, barely, other than that, no reaction, and sat, having long ago perfected the casual yet learned skill of waiting.

“I have never been diagnosed with pectus excavatum.” The gaze Sherlock leveled at him was carefully insouciant.

“That is not what I asked.” Angelo returned then, delivering a small basket of bread and made a quick escape as he took in the lull in conversation between the pair.

“Your friend over there has actually survived his meal. They’re getting their check now.” His voice was quiet despite his attempt at subversion. “She’s gotten at least three texts from her paramour while they were eating.”

“And you know this how?”

He launched into a few sentences about the condition of her jewelry, fingernails, the way she checked her mobile, her purse, and the state of her clothing. John listened enough to consider that his dinner partner didn’t miss much and had learned the careful art of deduction. He had assimilated similar skills in med school, but leaned more toward the characterization of physical attributes and assessments. And coupled it with a rather successful possession of intuition.

There was a pause in conversation as Angelo delivered plates to the table, and a comfortable if slightly electric silence fell as they began to eat, talking at times, topics casual. At one point, a table was seated over Sherlock’s left shoulder, and he glanced that way, then turned back to John.

“Tell me something about the man in gray.”

“He’s early 40′s, well nourished, maybe a drinker...”

Sherlock cut him off. “No. Something not specifically physical.”

“He’s not hassling the people he’s sitting with.”

To his credit, Sherlock was able to keep his face neutral for about six seconds before laughter burst from him. “No.”

John sighed resignedly. He glanced over again, casually, looking for something. “He’s left handed.”

“Obviously. Still physical.”

“Rides a bicycle.”

“Are you guessing?”

“Yes. Sort of. Biker’s shaped legs. And stiff hands.”

“Still physical. But correct. Tan lines on the back of the hands only, not fingers.”

“That’s also physical. I come back to the fact he’s not hassling his dinner companions.” John puzzled again, just a bit. “He might also work in law enforcement or civil service. Emergency management perhaps. He put his back to the wall where he can see both the room and the door.”

Sherlock considered this, then nodded, eyebrow raising in almost respect. “Perhaps. Rather astute observation, actually. For a beginner.”

“I’m not here for you to belittle or show off for, you know.” He pushed his plate back, slightly, then, as finished as he was going to get. “And I know how you figured out the solitary kidney, by the way. The congenital ear deformity, coupled with the azotemia.”

“Of course.”

Angelo returned a moment or two later, and John asked for the check. “Oh, no, always on the house for Sherlock. And his companion.” He waxed verbose on something Sherlock had helped him with years before, and John listened while feeling the tip of Sherlock’s shoe just barely touch the outside edge of his own. After a bit, it began to tap slightly impatiently against John’s.

They said farewell, eventually, to Angelo, and both rose to leave. The man in the gray suit waved them both over. Amused, John watched the man in gray as he spoke to Sherlock, calling him by name and discussing an article from this morning’s Mail. Sherlock’s disdain was rather obvious, and the conversation over quickly. John reached out a hand, then, “Dr. John Watson,” he said.

“Philip Anderson.” He stood quickly, sat back down. “I work for the Yard.”

There was a snort of derision, just barely, as John followed Sherlock out the front door. Once they were on the sidewalk, John laughed again. “It’s cheating if you already know them. And things about them. Does he ride?”

“He does. And it only would have been cheating for me to flesh things out and pretend I figured them out on my own.”

“So.” John looked about the street, considered the hour. It would be a rather long walk to his apartment. “Pectus excavatum?”

“Not really. Minimal at best. Nothing constrictive.” He thought about showing him, it would only have taken a button or two, decided it would probably be a bit not good. “Why?”

“Well, depending on your wingspan,” he gestured with his arms fully extended, “it might be worth ruling out Marfan syndrome. It’s mostly harmless, a collection of things like being tall, thin, long fingered. There’s a link with pectus excavatum, the concavity of chest wall, as well as some peculiarities with the aortic valve. Should be at least checked, especially if your wingspan is greater than your height.”

“Hmm. Should I be worried?”

“Not at all. You would join an elite bunch: Abraham Lincoln, John Taverner. Bin Laden, Rachmaninoff.” He shrugged. “Not a disease. More of an observation.”

He shrugged. “Thanks for joining me for dinner.”

“I’d thank you for paying except that you didn’t.” A cab pulled over then, slowing down to see if services were needed. There was a bit of an awkward moment, then John nodded to the hack. “Well, have a nice night.” He opened the back door, slid inside, and the cab drove off. He didn’t have to look back to know that Sherlock’s blue eyes followed the cab until it was out of sight.

++

The following day started off poorly when Mr. Hansen had taken a turn for the worse, was back on the ventilator and requiring vigilant intervention. John found himself pressed for time as the morning wore on, and he had just finished first rounds in only one unit when his phone chirped a reminder about the mandatory Medical Executive Board meeting. And it was truly mandatory, as his newly created position was a significant expense for the hospital and they expected updates monthly until they were convinced it had been a wise endeavor. Despite best efforts, the meeting was underway when he arrived, and he hesitated at the door.

His shared office secretary was speaking. “Dr. Watson texted me that he is on his way and will be here shortly, but here are the slides...” He entered the dark room, and the slides he’d helped create were just beginning. “Oh, here he is now. Dr. Watson?”

He joined her along the front of the room, stepped off to the side. Taking the remote, a calming breath, and trying to settle his mind, he slipped into presenter role and adeptly took the board through a brief history of the program, the need for the position, the raw data since he’d begun, and the success rates at other institutions. The prediction, which he’d considered after looking at patient volumes and acuities over the last few months, including what he’d seen since starting, was that his role would likely decrease length of stay for patients and ultimately decrease both morbidity and mortality. The final slide simply read ‘Questions’. And he paused there. A few of the senior staff had questions and concerns about the role of the current consultants, which would be decreasing. John answered concisely and quickly, feeling his phone vibrate with an incoming text.

A familiar voice spoke up, then. “Dr. Watson, how do you propose 24/7 coverage? If the program is expensive enough already, where is the budget going to come from?”

Slowly, intentionally and deliberately casual, John looked over, met steely blue eyes from the man leaning against the wall. “Other hospitals have cut at least a day off many of an ICU patient’s length of stay, which equates to savings of approximately...” John slipped back a few slides to the projected savings, read the data from it, and continued. “So as the program begins to show effectiveness, hours and coverage can be expanded to 7 days with rotation to cover off-hours and call time should decrease for the two of us already in the role.” Right now, schedules were random as they tried different hours, coverages, tracking volumes, hospital census, and acuity. He had a few other things to say about ICU reimbursement always being in the red, and his phone buzzed again. “If you’ll excuse me, thank you all for listening.” He exited quickly, the phone to his ear as he called the nursing unit to assure them he was on his way.

The rest of the day was busy enough that he had very little time to consider why a consulting detective was present at a closed meeting of the hospital’s Med Exec board. And even by the time he reached his office at the end of the day, he was exhausted, drained, starving, and couldn’t wait to leave. He unlocked his office, already sliding out of long lab coat, to find that his office, his locked office, was occupied. Sherlock was seated at his desk, long legs crossed at the ankle on the desk corner as if he bloody belonged there.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, startled. “What exactly are you doing in my office?”

“Waiting for you. Obviously. Don’t ask idiotic questions, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I do not have time for this. Seeing a landlady about a flat a few blocks away.” John looked at his phone, checked the time. There was a missed text from the man in the room that read Six foot two. -SH and John read it aloud, followed by, “Congratulations on your wingspan. You have 3 minutes before I have to leave. Oh, and you’re leaving too, and stay the hell out of my locked office.”

“A flat. Interesting.” He lowered his feet, sat forward. “Will you be looking for a flatmate?” John stared. “I know your salary, you realize. Going to be tight without a flatmate.” Seething, John knew he was right. Nothing was off limits, apparently.

“Why do you ask?” he growled, tersely. It was a bit of a curiosity that the man evoked an offensive, aggressive side of him that he typically reserved for battles truly worth fighting.

“I play the violin at all hours, keep random sleep habits, and sometimes don’t speak for days on end.”

“So?”

“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“Absolutely not.” John took his jacket from behind the door. “You have no boundaries. I am particularly miserable when I’m hungry. Like now, for instance. You’d provoke me into murdering you.” Sherlock stood up, pulling his own coat around him, turning the collar up, smiling just a bit in spite of John’s tirade. “The not talking for days sounds appealing, however. How do I arrange that?”

Sherlock smiled at that, a peculiar expression that John thought might be something of a rarity. And pleasant, even though it didn’t last long. He was, John admitted, a striking looking bloke.

“I’m unattached at present.”

John’s brows furrowed. “I wasn’t wondering about that.”

“You were about to.”

“Shut up.”

“What is the address?” When John was silent, he pressed. “Of the flat.” Sherlock paused at the door while John turned out the lights.

“You are not invited.”

“That’s rather rude.” He was sort of chuckling, as if stating the obvious was redundant. “My current living situation... with my brother... is becoming untenable.” He went on to explain, and John was only half listening as he wondered how long the man had been there and how much snooping had been done.

“How did you get in to my office, by the way?” John asked, locking it behind him.

“Hospital security let me in. Told them we had a meeting and you were running late.”

John was shaking his head. “They wouldn’t. You threatened them with your Med Exec board membership.” John had made a point to investigate the names of each board member, and was rather astonished to find the name William S. Holmes listed, his bio crediting a PhD in chemistry.

He inclined his head in agreement as they set off for the nearest exit. “Not threatened, exactly.”

“You do realize just being a board member is threatening to an employee. William.”

“Are you threatened?”

“I was in Afghanistan.”

“And you’ve done your homework. Commendable.” Sherlock gestured toward the floor. “When I first saw you, you were still walking with a cane. The one in your office.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Not in the hospital. At the board meeting for your interview. I mean, you didn’t bring the cane in to the meeting, but had left it in the corner in the lobby.”

John looked at him again, a bit puzzled. “I don’t remember your presence there. At the interview. There were a lot of people.”

“Sixteen. I can blend in when I choose. I asked you a question about your perception of your leadership strengths and you told the story about evacuating the military hospital. Saved a lot of lives that night.”

“That was an awful night.” Intelligence had trickled in that missile launches would be carried out overnight aiming at one of the local villages as well as the hospital in retaliation for supply chains being obliterated by the rebels. John had strongly endorsed evacuating all but the sickest who were unable to travel, and when the hospital was hit, there had been a few fatalities, a few injuries, including his own, but nothing like what the death toll would have been had they sheltered in place. John remembered the interview well, and could picture one of the more vocal opponents to the program, but that was all. “I recall the question, but I still don’t remember you. Sorry.”

“You see but do not observe.”

“So you say, Mr. Nicotine patch.”

They stepped to the kerb, and John continued walking. It was only several blocks. When Sherlock hesitated, he turned back, “I thought you were coming.”

“Are you inviting me? Flatmate.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. It’s a bad idea. And don’t tick off the landlady, please.”

++

The words bad idea kept coming out of John’s mouth and infusing all of his thoughts as they looked at the flat. It would be two weeks until the flat would be ready, if he was chosen, and John left his number and references. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, had some dubious connections in the past related to a case Sherlock had helped solve and prosecute. They were deliberately vague, but John could tell that the two knowing each other was definitely not a strike in the negative column, at any rate.

John was working night shift the following week, was sleep deprived, and not particularly in the mood for complications. Which seemed to happen most of the night. He responded to one of the units, assessed a patient, determined a treatment plan, wrote orders, and then stumbled, finally, to the on-call room, hoping for a power nap. He unlocked it, stepped inside. Sherlock was on the couch, TV remote in hand, looking like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary.

“Get. Out. Now.”

“Are you hungry, John? Because your disposition is abhorrent.” He clicked the TV off, offered him a granola bar. One of John’s granola bars. John glared at it.

“It’s bloody 2 am. Normal people are sleeping. Why are you here?” Something about the chemistry between the pair ignited absolute contention. Typically, he was not that way, but... “This is a bad idea.”

“I told you my sleep is rather random. Did you hear from Mrs. Hudson yet?”

“Did you consider perhaps texting instead of... stalking me?”

“You in person, John, are much more amusing than via mobile.”

John could only glare, more potently than at the granola bar, he hoped. Being considered amusing was not something he particularly aspired to. He slipped out of his shoes, turned out the light, flopped down on the bed, tucked his mobile just under the pillow with his hand resting on it. Either the audible tone or the vibration would certainly awaken him when needed. “Get out, Sherlock. Or I’m calling security.”

“Call away,” he said breezily. “I’ll make sure that whoever comes to that door gets an absolute eyeful.” He lowered his tone, reached out his long leg, tapped John’s knee, and it was startling, being touched out of nowhere. “And you should speak to the housekeeping director, they let anyone in here. You should be more careful.”

“You’re on the board. Get them all bloody fired, I don’t care.” The room was dark, their voices quiet, the conversation rather... intimate.

“You never answered my question.”

“If I do, will you leave?”

There was a pause. Sherlock was actually considering it, John realized. A few seconds stretched into a minute. John felt himself starting to relax, just a bit.

His phone rang. He put it on speaker, answered it, “John Watson.”

Then, sitting up, he listened. “John, we have EKG changes in 2109. 76 year old female. Chest pain.”

“STEMI?” He slid into his shoes, stretched, ready for action again, picked up his phone on the way. He sighed, so much for a bit of rest for the weary.

“Looks like that way. Inferior.” A cardiac monitor alarm sounded, high pitched. “Bradycardic now.”

“I’m on my way. Atropine point five.” John disconnected, left the room. By the time he returned, the room was empty. He got an hour and a half of sleep before being paged again.

++

“This would definitely be a bad idea,” John uttered to himself the following week after leaving Mrs. Hudson holding the newly signed lease for the flat in the building on Baker Street. Smiling at him fondly, she had offered him a set of keys for his friend, and her inflection certainly left no doubt as to the nature of her perception of their relationship, telling him that his nice young man is welcome, and it was fine, just fine. If John wanted, she said he can add the second name to the lease without question. The sets of keys had gone in his pocket, and he discussed with Mrs. Hudson when he will be moving in. He was exhausted and returned to his current bedsit, grateful to be leaving it and appreciative of being back on regular day hours.

The work has him stretched thinly, but his skills were sharper than ever, his mind engaging even more quickly now than it had several weeks before, and he overall was feeling less anxious than previously. Excellent collaboration in all of the critical care units had John pleased that the nurses embrace the new program, help him, trust him, and consult his opinion respectfully. It reminds him of the working professional relationship he’d had with some of them in Afghanistan. Smiling, he recalls the few personnel with which the relationship had been much more than professional. There are a few here in the hospital who convey interest, but every time John thought about perhaps arranging a drink meeting or some such, he was reminded of someone much taller, and darker. And male. And John is okay with that. And opts to, for the moment, do nothing until after he has relocated. And settled his unease with the situation. It’s a phase, he assures himself, and it will pass. Or perhaps it is actually something more.

++

Sherlock is on the unit the following day, in the evening, “just checking on Mr. Hansen”, but John is pretty sure there is more to it than that. For all John knew, perhaps he was on mission to find flaws in the intensivist program and get it removed. He suspects, more than that, however, that he is curious about the flat. Mostly, though, he has learned to ignore distractions and work efficiently. Trying to stay alive while keeping soldiers alive, back in the military, had done nothing if not trained him to prioritize well. And focus. He is, however, very much aware of his presence. Like a toothache, he thought somewhat grimly. You know it's there and can't completely ignore it.

John is in one of the rooms, a newly admitted man yelling garbled nonsense. He is hypotensive, pale, clammy. Earlier he had a renal biopsy done, had developed sudden restlessness, pain, and was now thrashing. There is no family and very little history, although he has a foreign appearance. John and the nurse were bouncing ideas off each other. “He needs a cat scan, rule out a retroperitoneal bleed, for sure. I’m thinking,” John says, “we probably should CT his head, too. Find out why his speech is impaired.”

From the hallway, he hears Sherlock’s voice. “He’s not that confused. He’s speaking Russian. Well, mostly anyway.”

John steps to the computer, orders the CT scan. “Oh? What is he yelling then, mostly?”

“He says he needs to pee. And he’s asking for his wife.”

John files the order, looks up, decides that Sherlock is just peculiar enough to be honest and correct. “Tell him he has a catheter. And get a phone number, I will call his wife.”

Both messages were delivered, the patient calmed down, and the patient’s wife arrived in time to see him off to the OR for repair of the very large retroperitoneal bleed that was confirmed by diagnostic imaging.

“What time does your shift end? -SH”

“7. Supposedly. Oh, and thanks for your help earlier.”

“Do you have keys for me? -SH”

John left that unanswered. Even as he knew he was already going to agree, he was inwardly shaking his head at his own decision.

About a half hour later, another incoming text tone. “Let me rephrase. Congrats on the flat. Mrs. Hudson says you have two sets of keys. -SH”

“Have I said lately that this is most assuredly a bad idea?”

++

John is not surprised to find Sherlock in the hallway outside his office, talking with another physician, pretty, young. John has seen her in the cafeteria a few times, but hasn’t spoken with her yet.

He puts out a hand, offers, “Dr. John Watson. John,” he amends. “New Intensivist.”

“Dr. Molly Hooper. Pathologist.”

Sherlock smiles, at her introduction. “She runs the morgue. All quite fascinating stuff down there.”

“And the patients don’t sass you,” John quips, “Or speak Russian.” The two men share a bit of a laugh, then.

Molly looks a bit confused, realizes she obviously is missing out on an inside joke. Sherlock speaks up, clarifies, “Helped out with a bit of translating today. John’s Russian is a bit... rusty.”

She smiles, then, shyly glancing at the taller man. John recognizes the interest, wonders if Sherlock is aware.

“Gotta run, then,” she says, checking the time and her folders. “It was nice to meet you, Dr. Watson. You’ll ring me about picking up those samples, then, Sherlock?”

He nods. “Tomorrow.” John watches her walk away, but Sherlock is already moving on.

“Keys?” he asks, impatiently turning to give John his undivided attention.

“We don’t know enough about each other that moving in, sharing a flat, would be even remotely sane.” John exhales. “Bad idea.”

“We know enough. I know neither one of us is interested in Dr. Hooper.” He narrows an eye at John. “Are you?”

John shrugged, “Not especially. She’s rather interested in you, though. You should perhaps tell her so she doesn’t get the wrong idea.” Sherlock seemed surprised by this. “You should make sure her feelings don't get hurt. She's rather sweet on you.”

He dismissed that out right, let it drop. “What’s ever been sane about your life, John?”

He opens his mouth, tries to speak, but can’t really come up with anything lately that would actually add weight to his case.

“You’re an adrenaline junkie that thrives on craziness and danger. You were awarded a Military Cross after the night of your injury and it’s conspicuously absent from your office. There is a framed picture, though, of you with a couple of buddies from each of the Three Continents from which your nickname came from, which someday I think I might like to hear the back story about.”

“How do you bloody know that?”

“Research is not all that hard, it’s just knowing where to look. And paying attention to what I see. And finding the right sources to talk to.”

++

The empty flat rather quickly became a conglomeration of completely mismatched furniture, boxes, and busy footsteps going in and out as John moved in on a Friday. The evening was noteworthy for the addition of a visitor, unheard of in move in day, particularly when John certainly had issued no invites, still had to intentionally consider the address. A brief clipped knock, the door opened, and in strode a stranger. John stood stock still, evaluating, as their eyes met. He felt sweat drop down the center of his back, grateful, sort of, for the interruption that allowed him to catch his breath.

The man was tall, bit paunchy, serious expression, medium dark hair thinning a bit on top, wifty. There was an arrogance about him, a degree of condescension. John recognized it occasionally in himself at times, was largely okay with it. But it was the pale eyes that revealed his identity.

“Hello Mycroft.”

Slight smile on the visitor’s face, then. Approval. “Dr. Watson”. John didn't correct him. John was sweaty with the work of moving, had little intention of shaking a hand, not that he thought it would be welcomed anyway. So this, this was Sherlock’s older brother.

“Some people wait to be let in.” He wondered what the point of the visit was.

“Thought perhaps your hands were full.”

“Good thing they weren’t full of a chair to bash you over the head with, then. Intruders should be rather wary around a combat vet.”

He let out a laugh, then, his head tipping to one side in response, with an eyebrow raising. There was a bit more warmth in his face.

“Why are you here?” John took a few steps his direction, hands cocked on his hipbones. “You obviously came to either check me out or the flat, seeing as how you’re losing a roomie.”

“I wanted to make sure you knew what you were getting into.” Mycroft had a bit of regal bearing to him, a tailored jacket over shirt, vest, tie, trousers. He carried nothing with him except a rather bizarre umbrella. It puzzled John only to note that it wasn’t presently raining, although it was London and that could change at a quick bit.

“Do any of us?” John’s bottle of water was close by, he stopped, took a long draw. “You know he thinks you’re a pain in the arse.”

Whatever the Holmes brothers didn’t have in common, they communicated rather expressively with nonverbal cues, and Mycroft’s eyes narrowed just a bit. He appeared to be sizing John up as a potential enemy. “He says the same about you.”

John was honestly pleased about that. “Good. He has a few things to learn, yet.”

“Good luck with that. We are on the same page, then.” Mycroft seemed not overly anxious to stay when John gestured to the... well, in the direction of the chair underneath detritus of moving. “I strongly recommend you secure renters insurance that includes fire damage.”

John leveled a look at Mycroft, not feeling the need to speak the obvious question.

“Why do you think he’s living with me? After the fire at the last place, and the damage at the place before that?” He made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Perhaps you should have done your research.”

John took a few steps, pulled a moving blanket off a pile of items gathered in the corner, revealing two, new fire extinguishers. “What makes you think I haven’t? You’re welcome to stay and help if you would like.” John didn’t think Mycroft would care for the dismissal, but he had things to accomplish, and got back to work. The door closed with a soft click. Later, he would discover another fire extinguisher that had been left just inside the doorway. John knew then that they both should be careful not to underestimate each other.

++

Sherlock moved in the following day. He took in the presence of fire extinguisher, glared at it, then glared at John. "Mycroft?" John's snicker was as much of an answer as he was going to give. John had taken the larger downstairs bedroom, and was grateful for the few pieces that Mrs. Hudson either left in the flat or made available to them. The kitchen mostly came supplied, but John already knew, at least from him, it would be more decorative than functional. Like his cane in his office at the hospital.

The first night in the flat, together, was less awkward than John had expected, but it took a turn for the better when Sherlock’s mobile buzzed with an text from Lestrade. He turned to John, eyes alight and sparkly, said, “There’s a case. Are you interested?”

“Erm... Sure?”

And before he could reconsider or further question the lunacy of yet another possibly bad idea, they were out the door, coats not buttoned up, hailing a cab.

When they arrived at the scene, Lestrade and a few from NSY were there, milling around, and John hung back, hands in his pockets, trying to get a feel for expectations and roles here. Clearly, there was mutual disdain of most of the police force and Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had immediately gone to Lestrade directly, whom John recalled from the day he was at the hospital, and Anderson was there, but also hanging back. There was a female body in the stairwell, John pieced together, and as Sherlock reached the doorway, he turned, beckoned John to follow.

The crime scene was, according to Sherlock, barely worth them coming out. He fussed at the detectives who were trying to document the angles of the body until they backed off. Sherlock turned questioning eyes to John, asked him what he thought. Not bending down even, John stated, just viewing the half-flight of stairs behind the body and the spread of the blood pattern beneath her mouth. “The fall didn’t kill her.” When Sherlock turned intense eyes at him, he continued, “Half a flight? Probably not enough to cause all that blood. Probably.” He stared again, resisting the urge to perform a medical exam. Of course, that was not what his presence was for. “Lost a shoe, though. Do we know how high up she started?”

At that point, Sherlock launched into a bit of a tirade at Lestrade for his already inept data gathering skills. At this time, Lestrade’s reserve must have snapped, and he started yelling about Sherlock’s attitude and his temper tantrum, again, and said that if he expected to be invited on cases of any type that he’d better behave himself. While they were verbally engaged, John moved a bit until he was behind Lestrade, in Sherlock’s line of sight. He stared at him, attempting and finally succeeding at drawing his attention. Lestrade noticed, turned his head quickly enough to see John quirk an eyebrow and shake his head slightly. The taller man’s mouth closed, then, eyes narrowed, but the situation defused in a heavy silence.

They both stood back, watching the scene continue to unfold. The body was moved, finally, once the ME arrived and a throat puncture was discovered. John had moved closer to look, commented to those standing right there that it was a well-placed stab wound, striking both internal and external carotid arteries. When Lestrade again turned questioning eyes to John, John shrugged, and added, “Someone knew what they were doing. Med student, EMT, nurse.”

Lestrade consulted his notebook. “Husband is a vascular surgeon.”

A few moments later, John was shaking his head at that. “Too obvious. And a surgeon could definitely pull off even a crime of passion much better than this.”

Sherlock smirked, just a bit. “Obviously, Lestrade.” He eyed the woman’s attire. “Check the boyfriend. Personal trainer, perhaps?” He turned on his heel, clearly dismissive in nature, and stalked off, expecting John to follow.

John’s social graces far exceeded anything that NSY was apparently used to dealing with, he realized, because before following Sherlock, he reached out to shake Lestrade’s hand, introducing himself, formally this time, as Dr. John Watson. The handshake was shockingly returned with a bit of reticent friendliness, and John turned to see Sherlock watching him approach before hailing a cab for the return trip home. Although Sherlock had given the cabbie the home Baker Street address, John amended it to the Chinese place down the street. When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he said only one word, “Dinner.”

Mostly, it seemed, back at the flat, that Sherlock wasn't actually even around much, John discovered, and as with his own shift-work he was gone for long shifts and then sleeping when he was actually home. He arrived home one morning after a more-uneventful-than-not night shift to find Sherlock asleep on the couch, long limbs askew and hanging over either armrest or the cushions. He awakened with the noise of the door closing, sat up sleepily, and both of them were mildly stunned to find the other. For an awkward moment, neither spoke, then John set his bag down, hung up his coat.

“I’m sleeping the day away, myself. You here later?”

For just having awakened, Sherlock was alert and intense. “Working a case with Lestrade later. Haven’t slept much since ... what day is it?” He consulted his phone, groaned, closed his eyes. “Since last week.” He stretched. “Would love the help if you can come with me tonight? Might be dangerous.”

“I’m back in the hospital tonight. Might be dangerous, there, too.”

“Next time, then. Never know when I might need you again.”

John was already nodding, and headed down the hall, already taking off an outer layer of clothing. “G’night then.”

As promised, Sherlock was absent later as John showered, ate the remainder of the takeaway from a few days back, and went back in to work. He hadn’t been there long before his mobile sounded, the A&E physician with an admission for the ICU. He started to tell John about another situation, then said, “I’ll catch you up when you get here.”

The patient being admitted was a trauma, having been involved in a struggle involving another victim over a handgun and apparently a knife. John took the clip from the rack and read the extent of the injuries as he began to assess the patient. It would be a rather straightforward admission, then. The gun had discharged somewhere in the vicinity of the patient’s leg, causing a rather nasty laceration. There was some concern over arterial damage, which was why the patient was ICU destined. There were, John noted, some other wounds, including broken ribs, and John was concerned about pulmonary contusion and flail chest. Orders were placed, John entered a note, and overheard one of the A&E nurses giving report to the ICU.

The doctor met John in the hallway. “So there’s someone here asking for you. Tall, thin, dark hair. Closed head injury, bit confused initially. Clear now, but we’ve been unable to calm him down enough for CT scan yet. He’s refusing sedation. No ID on him, won’t give his name. Any chance you can pop in, take a look?”

There was just a bit of queasiness in John’s gut, a niggling feeling that this was a bit not good. He answered, “Sure. Unstable at all?”

“Just uncooperative. Blow to the head, went over one of the bridges into the Thames. Deflected a GSW - maybe from the other patient you saw, neither is confirming that. Pulled out by a bystander who just happened to see the fall. Lucky.”

John rolled his eyes, muttered, “Fantastic,” and asked what bay the patient was in. A small part of him wondered if John had accompanied him, would this have happened? He’d witnessed the impulsivity, the recklessness. Squelched the guilt. This was not his fault.

He pulled the clip from the rack as he walked by. If nothing else, he might be able to use it as a weapon. Of course, it could have been someone else, but it wasn’t, and he was not surprised to see Sherlock on one of the gurneys, giving the nurse a hard time about being allowed to leave. She wasn't caving, not a bit, and Sherlock himself was adamant, gearing up, spoiling for (another) fight apparently. And his speech was slightly off, to John’s ear, higher pitched than normal with diction slightly more slow and pronounced than usual.

Monitored rhythm, normal, vital signs normal, all properly displayed to John's trained eye as he viewed the screen from the doorway.

The nurse turned as John entered, the set of her jaw giving away her escalating frustration, and John tried to smile at her, nodding. “I’ll take it from here, then.” She sighed gratefully, wordless, as she walked past him and out of the bay. John slid the glass doors closed, then, turned back to his stubborn-faced flatmate. Sherlock’s eyes were closed.

“Ahem.” John waited, cleared his throat again.

The heart rate on the monitor jumped up ten beats per minute. It gave John an odd sense of pleasure.

Sherlock opened an eye, glared.

“Get the damned CAT scan, then. If it’s clear you can probably leave.”

“It’s a waste of time, and resources.” He sat up, or tried to, was a touch wobbly. John stayed across the room, reading the papers on the clip and watching closely the slight uncoordination.

“Loss of consciousness. Closed head injury.” When Sherlock looked at him with something akin to aggravation, he continued. “Bump on the noggin. You could have drowned, you know.” Sherlock had been undressed, of course, his wet clothes, coat, shoes placed in a large plastic bag on the floor near the bed. There was an IV infusing, in his arm, which was surprising, given his present contrary state of mind. Must have been placed before he was awake enough to refuse it, John realized. His mobile vibrated, and he quickly viewed the message. Not an urgent summons.

“I’m fine.” He sat up all the way, thought about throwing his legs off the bed, was unable to as the side-rails blocked him. Fortunately, John saw, as clearly he swayed. “Or I would be if the room would stop spinning.”

“Get the damned CAT scan, Sherlock. And why are you a Joe Bloggs?” He stepped to the bedside, then, pushed Sherlock’s shoulder until he was laying back. Strong clinician hands then found and assessed the hematoma at the posterior right side of his skull. The ice pack that had been set aside - probably refused that as well - was still cold as John picked it up and set it over the lump. “Leave that on.”

“You are all bloody ridiculous.”

John stood, then, backed away. “Sherlock. The CAT scan is going to happen. We have restraints and sedation and I have no qualms about ordering both.” It wasn’t the first time he had threatened a patient, but the last time had been in Afghanistan. His rank of Captain was usually enough of a threat, and soldiers knew their place much more than his flatmate did apparently. “Your call. Choose wisely.” John hoped the intimation of extreme measures would be enough to generate agreement, as it was generally not best practice to sedate someone with a head injury. Although it would be done if needed.

The sound of the door sliding open alerted them both of the presence of the A&E doc who had summoned John. He took in the scene, handed John a lab printout. Toxicology screen, then, positive for benzoylecgonine, a cocaine metabolite, and alcohol. John was both relieved and furious that there was a doctor present in the room when he discovered this, as it was imperative for him not to actually lash out and kill his flatmate if he wanted to keep his job. And stay out of prison.

He watched Sherlock’s face carefully as he held out the paper in front of Sherlock and allowed him to read it. John watched the cardiac monitor. His heart rate was back to baseline, slower. Interesting. Sherlock’s pale eyes flicked to the other man, “Would you excuse us please?”

He looked to John for affirmation, and when John nodded, he exited the bay silently.

Once the door was closed, Sherlock continued, “It was for a case.”

“And? Do you really think that makes it OK? Flatmates should know the worst, my arse!” John’s mobile vibrated again. He pinched the bridge of his nose trying to stave of the impending headache, aggravated beyond imagination at the idiocy of the man in front of him. Quickly viewing his mobile, realizing he was needed elsewhere before a situation in the ICU got out of control, he all but snarled at Sherlock. “I have to go. We are going to talk about this later. This whole thing. And it might end in discussing when you are moving out.” He paused, was pleased that there was not a quick retort or complaint. “Am I making myself clear?”

It was probably Sherlock’s first glimpse of the murderous, frightening, do not mess with me expression on John’s face, and John was only slightly satisfied that he at least had the sense to not speak, choosing instead to merely nod, and settle back as far as he could into the gurney.

John turned abruptly, stepped from the room, nodded to the nurse, said curtly, “CAT scan should be fine, now.” He hoped, anyway. It would be overstepping his role at this point to intervene with the threats of forcing the diagnostics, but the A&E doc would of course take care of things.

She looked puzzled, a bit, then nodded, “Thanks.” John worked hard at relaxing enough to smile at her. “You know his name, then?”

John paused. “It’s Joe Bloggs until - unless he tells you otherwise.”

Striding back to ICU, he paused long enough by central supply to procure a pair of scrubs, Large of course for the length, and slippers. The tech who brought them was a pleasant gal, and John requested quite kindly that they be delivered to the room Sherlock was in in the A&E. Reminding himself that act of kindness was more than he deserved but that it was the right thing to do, he arrived in the ICU, the next few hours passing quickly. John was profoundly grateful for the distraction from his flatmate’s behavior and activities of the night.

The patients settled rather quickly, based on the typical routine of many of the other nights, and John returned to the on-call room much ahead of typical schedule, looking forward to catching a brief nap. He intentionally did not view any test results in the computer, did not phone the A&E, did not consider going to check on him in person. Which, as it turned out, was unnecessary, because when he unlocked the on-call room, locked to prevent unauthorized entry, he found Sherlock asleep in his bunk. Decked out in the scrubs and slippers John had supplied, and on John’s pillow and under John’s blanket, one foot poking out as if to claim ownership of not only the bunk but the remainder of the room as well.

Once he saw him, he doused the overhead light, leaving just the small, faintly dim reading light on in the corner. John had grown accustomed to leaving the smaller light on since the time he stubbed his toe in an effort to respond to a medical emergency from the darkened room. He wondered if the noise and light had awakened him, felt a slight hint of compassion at his physical condition. The ice pack had been long discarded, and John could see, even so, the swelling at the back of his head. The couch looked not nearly as inviting as the empty bed would have been, but John grabbed a blanket from the linen stashed on the shelf, stowed shoes and phone in appropriate places, set an alarm, and lay down. The rhythmic, slow cadence of Sherlock’s breathing was reassuringly steady. John stared into the darkness, finally felt himself relax, allowed his eyes to drift closed.

“Your room... is spinning.” The voice was quiet.

“How did you get in here?” he asked, then quickly continued, “Never mind, I find I don’t actually care. CAT scan was ok then?”

“Concussed.”

“Nausea?”

“They gave me... ondansetron before taking out my IV.” He enunciated each syllable of the anti-emetic.

“You’ll be OK. Sleep if you can.”

There was a soft grunt in response.

For as many nights as John had already pulled, the mobile usually awakened him regularly as minor and sometimes major things arose requiring either phone orders or for him to go assess a patient or manage a crisis. Occasionally to the A&E if needed for an admission to a critical area. But tonight, it was the sound of Sherlock flinging his form out of the bed, retching, long legs stumbling as he headed toward the loo. John was always a light sleeper, even lighter when at work, and was on his feet by the time Sherlock was only a step out of bed. He took an elbow, resisted the half-hearted effort Sherlock made to shrug him off, waited until his stomach was certainly empty. When Sherlock tried to stumble the other direction back to bed, John halted him, handed him a small cup of diluted mouthwash first, made him use it.

“God, you’re a pain.” He groused, finally, laying on his back, an arm over his eyes. The scrubs just about hung off him, John noticed.

“Next time you can hold your own damn head while you’re sick.” His mobile sounded, then, a question about a patient with fever and low blood sugar. He could certainly have handled it over the phone, opted instead to go check the patient, leave the room quiet. Perhaps make another set of rounds, although it was a bit early for the usual routine.

By the time John returned to the on-call room, the shift was nearly over, he’d already given hand-off to the next doc, and he was a bit wrung out. There had been another drug overdose that he’d helped work on in the A&E to no avail. Young adult, bad choices, too late. It brought back unpleasant associations with the military stint, senseless death over something they personally were only involved in out of allegiance to the sense of right and the mobilization of England’s armed forces. He opened the door quietly, saw Sherlock asleep, considered the revelation of the drug use, deemed it intolerable but realized it would have to wait until he was neurologically recovered before laying into him too harshly. He gathered up his things, touched Sherlock on the leg to wake him up, waited until he had his wits about him, and together they left the room, walking side by side out the front doors of the hospital, hailed a cab. There was no way, John knew, that Sherlock would walk all the way home. And he was not about to carry all of the wet gear a long distance, either.

It took two separate trips to get slightly unsteady head-injured man up the steps and then the bags. When Sherlock moved as if to crash on the couch, John redirected him down the hall and into his own bedroom, knowing the couch was not long enough and another set of stairs was a bad idea.

“My head is killing,” he offered.

“You get a prescription for pain pills?”

“Yes. But the paper probably will be ineffective. I've a degree in chemistry and I know these things.”

“Don’t get too giddy, I’ll take you right back to the A&E.”

“God, you really hate me, don’t you?” He raised both hands to his head, holding temples firmly.

John turned off the light, then, exhausted himself, staggered back to the sitting room, where he hung up wet clothing over door sills and a plastic kitchen chair. The thick wool coat was likely going to be weeks to dry, and when John checked pockets, he found Sherlock’s mobile, obviously ruined, screen blank. He returned to the bedroom, found Sherlock still awake, uncomfortable.

“Sorry about your mobile, mate. A total loss.” No answer, and John was pretty sure he didn’t care. “Need something for pain, then? I've got a small stash.” When Sherlock’s eyes opened in something akin to interest, John remembered. “Legal stuff. And nothing particularly strong, for you, either. Especially if you’ve been using, recently.”

“I haven’t been.” When John raised an eyebrow, he added, “much.”

But he did request pain pills, and John brought him a co-proxamol along with water. “Might make the room spin more, on an empty stomach,” he had cautioned before handing him the tablet. After seeing that Sherlock was at least laying down and being somewhat cooperative, John opened a dresser drawer, took pyjamas, crossed as if to leave.

“Don’t go. I mean, you don’t have to.” Sherlock eyed the expanse of bed next to him, closed his eyes again. John barely hesitated, then considered - rationalized? - that if he needed something, he would at least be close. And once he fell asleep, it might be harder to wake him up if he was all the way upstairs. Or out on the couch.

“Fine.” He stripped off shirt, trousers, laid them on the chair, then pulled on the pyjamas, climbed into the far side of the bed. The jostling of the mattress had Sherlock groaning again a bit, and John thought perhaps he should have read the CAT scan report before leaving, if the pain was this intense. Once John was settled, Sherlock carefully turned on his side, facing away, and must have not aggravated the headache too much.

John tentatively reached out a hand, slid it into the curls. His fingers gently probed the hematoma, then lightly, smoothly started rubbing just a bit, slow circles. A low rumble deep in Sherlock’s chest started, and John suspended the motion.

“Want me to stop?” John asked quietly.

“No. It’s...” his voice cracked just a bit, hoarse. “It’s good.”

Eventually, after a few minutes of light head massage, Sherlock’s breathing evened out, deeper, more regular, and John lightened his touch. Another few minutes passed, and John’s fingers were tired, his arm resting against the pillow, relaxed. He fell asleep, then, his hand cradling the back of Sherlock’s head.

++

John asked for some details about the injury, and answers were vague, as expected. However, Sherlock did confess, while his thoughts were perhaps not as clear as they could have been, that he had nicked John’s keys and had copied both his office and the on-call room. He didn’t, he mused, want to have to keep bothering housekeeping or security in order to get into places he felt he was entitled to be anyway. John informed him that he would have given him copies, legal copies, if he had but asked for them. His request, and a serious one, was that he be damned sure that John was the on call physician before just letting himself into the on call room. Finding company would likely not be something that his co-worker would find all that humorous. Sherlock agreed, but John wasn’t completely sure he wouldn’t help himself to either room if it suited him.

About a week later, Sherlock had somewhat healed, headache present only if he tried to run. John had put his foot down twice about accompanying the Yard on a case that might have involved strenuous activity, and while Sherlock was unhappy about it, he acquiesced. He found it challenging, however, to disengage his brain, but John had advised that excessive reading might be counterproductive on a freshly concussed brain, so they listened to music, told stories (some clearly fictional) from earlier days, discussed some of their favorites, and, as John was working day hours again, ended up crafting a few simple but remarkable home-cooked meals.

Lestrade showed up a few days later, when Sherlock's concussion symptoms were almost completely gone. He brought a few files that Sherlock had apparently requested. They recognized each other immediately, but Lestrade was not expecting Sherlock to have a flatmate, or at least, did not piece together that they were sharing the flat.

"House call? You okay, mate?" He looked at Sherlock, wondering if he'd taken a turn for the worse. Concern was actually evident in his voice, expression.

John glanced over at Sherlock, wondering if he had an opinion on answering, seeing as how John was the newcomer to this scene. "Not a housecall. We're ..."

Sherlock finished the sentence, quickly. "Flatmates."

Greg laughed at that, thinking it a joke. The laugh, however, died midstream when he realized neither was kidding. "Seriously?" He was incredulous. "You've never had a flatmate. Ever. And I thought you and your half-cocked brother were going to kill each other." He looked startled, then, as another thought occurred to him about the nature, perhaps, of their arrangement. "So John knows about... I had no idea, and... Sherlock, you've never..." And then he must have realized how foolish - not to mention out of line - he sounded, and shut up.

Sherlock let out a chuckle then. "Greg, yes, never had a flatmate. He hasn't threatened to kill me in about 24 hours, so I'm probably about due."

Greg gave John an appreciative, and wary, glance. "Good luck, then. I should leave you my number."

John nodded. "Thanks, but I've already got it. And yes, I know about his habits. Feel free to search the flat, if you like. It's clean at the moment, and so is he."

Sherlock leaned his head back, then, against the wall. "I am still in the room, you are aware? And Greg, as to the rest of what you were intimating, should that ever be any of your concern, we will be sure to include you in that discussion. Until then, piss off."

John had gone to bed after dinner, knowing he had an early shift the next day. But sleep was elusive, and he tossed a bit, turned the light on to read a stretch, couldn’t concentrate, light back off, kicked the covers down, grew chilly, pulled them back up. After a space, he heard footsteps on the stairs, coming down, expected them to grow faint as they should have headed toward the kitchen. Instead, they grew closer, slowly and quietly. The door had been slightly ajar, and John saw it open further.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I hear you tossing. It’s driving me nutters.”

“Well, I beg your royal pardon for that,” John retorted, then sighed at his uncalled for attitude, unnecessary harshness. “Sorry. Trouble sleeping is all.”

The door closed again, and John figured that was it. It was quiet again, but instead of footsteps lightly regressing down the hallway, away from him, he heard footsteps coming toward the bed. It was quiet in the room except for the quiet shush of bare feet on carpet, fibers compressing, releasing. The darkness was palpable, and he knew his eyes were wide open despite knowing there was little vision. Sherlock’s voice was low and quiet as he touched the bed, crawled up alongside into the empty space, pulling covers up, “Maybe company will help.”

If John had been remotely sleepy or relaxed before, that had gone away, been replaced with a hint of unease. He turned partway, facing Sherlock as he settled. “This is kind of atypical flatmate behavior.”

“We are atypical flatmates.”

There was just enough light coming in from the window through the curtains that just the barest glimmer of open eyes was visible. “True,” John agreed. One foot slid slightly over into the center of the bed, then, and John slid his own out to meet it. Sherlock’s toes were long, warm.

“How okay are you with this?” John asked.

“Define this.” There was a twinge of amusement, then he added, “And define okay.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because having a solitary kidney is fascinating?” Ah, flashback to the “date” at Angelo’s so long ago. There was humor in his voice.

“Actually, it’s still not. Not how I define fascinating, anyway.” John breathed, and could almost swear the room was now a few degrees warmer.

If there was ever a line to be crossed, John was acutely aware of it, acknowledged it, identified it as a point of no return, a line in the sand, a place in time where everything from that moment forward would be different. A crossroads. And John deliberately, resolutely, emphatically, eagerly, crossed it, stepped over it.

“Fascinating would possibly refer to the human response the first time this happens.” He reached out a hand to Sherlock’s pectoral muscle, slid along, noting the very slight central concavity, slid thumb and forefinger around nipple and muscle, squeezed just firm enough to cause the sharp intake of breath, an electric pinch through the shirt. “Or this.” Drifting up on an elbow, he eased closer, his hand moving to solidly touch Sherlock’s stubble-bound jaw as he angled his head close, lips meeting. The first touch was electric, foreign, warm, and hesitant. Insistent hands, his, Sherlock’s, reached for the hem of Sherlock’s tee shirt, grabbing, pulling, up over Sherlock’s head. Neither knew nor cared where it landed.

Pushing forward, John leaned in with more pressure, his mouth angling, slanting, feeling a flush of tingling on his skin, the first signs of tongues meeting. Sherlock’s lips, John realized, were just as sexy in action as they were to look at. Softly bowed, warm, pliant, seeking, explorative. There was soft nipping of teeth at John’s lower lip, and he leaned further, muscle tensing as he flattened Sherlock flush onto his back. His own teeth reciprocated, tugging at Sherlock’s mouth, tongue, then sliding lower, licking and then blowing on a crested nipple, then biting the resultant puckering flesh, drawing a low moan from the supine form.

“I’m thinking I wasn't actually keeping you awake,” John said, a hand skimming down lithe ribs, settling on the gathered waistband of pyjamas. “I’m thinking you had something” his hand slid down inside, finding tense erectile tissue standing at attention “of your own that was keeping you awake.”

“Might help with my headache.”

“You have a headache?” John’s head raised at that, just a bit, perhaps a bit too much. “Maybe you’ve been overdo--”

“No,” he said, interrupting. “It’s fine. Prevention. Because if I don’t - or you don’t - take care of something, there will definitely be one.” John felt a hand brush over his shoulder, down a tense bicep, slide along the tee shirt seeking contact with skin. Finding it, sliding the shirt up, opening the gap of skin.

“I hear it’s good for insomnia, too.”

“In your highly esteemed medical opinion?” John angled up again, reaching both hands along Sherlock’s waistband, tugging downward.

“You can trust me, I’m a doctor.”

“What makes you trustworthy is your integrity, not your degree.” Motion stilled, then, the only sound was breathing. Definitely not something John had ever heard Sherlock utter before.

“Is that the concussion talking, or did you actually just pay me a compliment?” There was chuckling, then, and John pulled back a moment, switched on the reading lamp. Low light chased away the darkness, and John returned to where he had left off, at Sherlock’s waist. His hand wrapped around him, tugging slightly. The light, much better, he realized, to see the absolute sexiness of Sherlock’s dark hair, dark eyes, almost reverent expression. It figures, he realized, that the intensity he did everything else with would spill over into the bedroom.

“Don’t get used to it.” Sherlock’s arms, then, seemed to relax out, angled away from his body, in a position of something that seemed, acted, and felt, to John, a lot like surrender. Sweet, utter surrender - permission granted. I give.

“Oh, I’m thinking CAT scan if it happens again.” While Sherlock was still, unmoving, accommodating, his muscle tone was tense, firm, as if the mere effort of laying still was costing him dearly. John quickly removed the remainder of his own clothing, watched Sherlock’s gaze lock and linger on his naked form.

“Oh God,” he breathed, and when John made some sort of noise in his throat, Sherlock’s scrutiny turned to John’s face. “You... wow. I want...” The uncharacteristic banality of his word choices made them both smile. “I want you,” he uttered finally.

“How do you want...” John began, his hands stuttering from nipple to hardness, then, his thumb angling over top and his fingers firm, pressing. Long legs started to tremble, then, from need or from self-imposed restriction, John wasn’t sure.

“Doesn’t matter. Decide quick. Or...” His voice was breathless, as shaky as his thighs.

John maneuvered up on elbows and knees, secured lube from the top drawer, generous dollop in his palm, then he reached his hand around both of them at once, aligning his body directly on top. Slight amount of friction, his hand sliding confidently, pelvis grinding. His mouth sought to cover the keening coming from Sherlock, and the shaking was now almost full body.

John found the stillness of his partner very titillating right up until the end, when he growled in a rapid harsh whisper, “Please... oh God, please hang on to me,” and Sherlock came first, low moans punctuating the pulsations. As soon as Sherlock’s limbs encased him, it was all over for John, his orgasm building, tensing, coiling, to finally release in shuddering waves as his hand held both of them firm. Sherlock sucked in a hissing breath, and John realized at the heightened, almost painful sensitivity he must have had as his hips tried to quell what his hand was still doing. He released his grip immediately, turning them, together, onto their sides, clinging in desperation as the intensity of the moment plateaued, then barely, gradually, slowly, deliciously, started to ease.

Tissues to clean them, light out, covers pulled up, tired lazy caresses ensued in comfortable silence. Maybe not such a bad idea, after all, he mused. Sleep, when it finally arrived, was welcome and deep for them both.

++

The bed was empty when John’s alarm sounded, and the flat was deserted. John enjoyed a relaxing cup of tea, hoped Sherlock was all right - meaning, hopefully, not ill, not in trouble, not injured, not in jail, and not going to be a nuisance all day long. He sent a brief text, “Swing by my office if you get a sec today, there’ll be an envelope for you.”

He hoped it was intriguing enough to get him to comply. The envelope just might, he thought, be aggravating. Inside, Sherlock would find two lab slips, one for a repeat tox screen and the other for HIV. And copies of John’s most recent bloodwork, too. Let him fuss. It was, John thought, perhaps a day too late, but non-negotiable.

Sometime between nine and twelve the envelope was collected, and John, in a brief moment of curiosity, logged into the computer system, saw that blood work was actually pending for one W.S. Holmes. Already resulted, he saw, and checked them. Negative for everything. It was, after all, John thought, ordered by him and more than slightly his business.

Baker Street was brightly lit as John approached from the street. Music played from the flat, loud, beautiful Symphony Orchestra, Dvorak, if John recalled correctly. Or maybe it was Vivaldi. One of the docs in Afghanistan was a classical buff and, while John appreciated it previously, it was the passion of the man’s to enlighten anyone who would listen, to certain pieces of music. John discovered that knowing the back story on certain compositions made all the difference. He unlocked the door, and the volume greatly increased. Sherlock stood facing the telly, violin in position, and he was playing along with the music, following the conductor, his form while playing rather breathtaking. It was an intense piece, with rapid melodies, crafted with skill, performed brilliantly. John watched a few moments, Sherlock’s arm an extension of the mahogany instrument, the bow an elongated part of his arm, his curls bobbing at times as he laid into the strings. It was amazing.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to John, the briefest of acknowledgements, then returned to the conductor. An octavo on the stand must have been primarily decorative, John observed, as Sherlock’s eyes never went to it, not even once in the 8 or 9 minutes that was left in the piece. He had finally set his bag down, eased his jacket off his shoulders, but remained standing, just inside the door. Truly, the music was a thing of wonder, as was the man, the balance of the sounds, the beauty of the violin in the flat, melody of course, first chair, John considered, easily. Although, Sherlock in an organized group supposed to be following directions was almost laughable, and there was no wonder that this was the way he chose to perform.

The piece ended, the audience on the telly applauded as did the audience in Baker Street as well.

“Amazing.” John put his things away, finally, then, while Sherlock released the tension on the bow, placed it and the instrument carefully in the hard case with royal burgundy lining. “Absolutely amazing.”

He was gifted with a smirky smile, then, a warm expression from chin to eyes exclusively meant for him.

“Is it hard to tune to the recording?” He adjusted the volume down as an advertisement came on, then. “I mean, is the whole thing off slightly?”

Nodding, he replied, “The whole thing is flat about a half step. But not a hindrance. Retuning’s not so hard unless the strings are new, in which case it doesn’t hold either way.”

“I enjoyed that very much.” He looked around, “Is that dinner? Do I actually smell food?”

“Not really. I wouldn’t recommend it. I picked up some tissue samples from Dr. Hooper today. A severed hand and three toes.”

“And these are in the kitchen why?”

“Because they don’t belong in the dining room. Really, John, you ask ridiculous questions.”

John reached for his coat. “Put them away, then, they should stay refrigerated you know. Dinner will be out tonight. And tomorrow, we are going to segregate the kitchen. Your side and mine. And,” he waited until Sherlock was looking at him and remotely paying attention, “there will be rules.”

“I am already playing by your bloody rules. Using keys to get in your office, getting your stupid sodding bloods done, nice, by the way, the lady who stuck me was a terrible stick. I could have done better.”

“Good job, then, thanks for doing that.”

“I guess I’ll go pick up the results tomorrow.”

“It was all negative.”

“They were my results. I don’t think you are supposed to violate privacy like that.”

“Sherlock, did you look at the slip?” He was silent, refusing to state the obvious, that of course he had looked at it. “Who bloody ordered your tests?”

The stubborn git refused to admit he had no grounds to be angry. John was reminded of his pediatric rotation in med school, in which case the children regularly threw temper tantrums very similar to what he was encountering now.

“You can stop your sulking anytime.” As John watched his face, he had to try hard not to actually laugh at the expressions as Sherlock debated whether or not he was going to listen or not. He took Sherlock’s coat, held it out, waited for him to give in and put his arms in sleeves. If he was going to act like a child, John could certainly treat him as one. “Stop acting like a child.”

“God no.” He snorted, grabbed the coat, muttered, “fine!”, then put it on, working buttons and scarf.

John paused at the door, waited for Sherlock to settle himself down, which he did and John smiled at him encouragingly. “See, it’s not so hard. And Sherlock,” he paused until they were standing face to face, “I’m sorry she hurt you.”

“I expect you to make that up to me.” John chuckled, at that. “And yes, actually, it is hard.” His emphasis on that final word prompted a bit of laughter as they exited the flat, headed down the steps. Sherlock was mid-stride and John on the second step when John reached out, grabbed Sherlock’s arm.

“What?”

John reversed his footing, pulled out his key again. “Exactly. What are we doing?” And Sherlock caught on. “Dinner can definitely wait.”

++

They were seated at Angelo’s a bit later in the evening. Sherlock would have abandoned dinner altogether but John was unwilling, so they came out anyway for a late bite. “Aren’t you glad I looked at your lab results?”

“You accused me once of having no boundaries.”

John raised an eyebrow at that, shrugged. “I suppose you have a point there.” He sampled the wine as Angelo placed the food they’d ordered in front of them.

“So in the interest of disclosure,” John began casually, watching with interest as Sherlock became slightly more engaged in the conversation, “how about you try to figure out where my Three Continents nickname came from.”

“Well, obviously, a threesome, you interrupted it...” John shook his head. “A foursome, and you were part of it?” He lowered his voice a bit, although it was largely unnecessary, the restaurant was sparsely occupied. “You had three individual dates in one night, managed an orgasm each time?” He was truly puzzled. “Am I close?”

“Not especially.”

“You killed three men in one night from three different continents.”

“No.”

“Is it a sexual reference? A body count reference?”

“No. And no.”

Sherlock’s brain was working as they picked through dinner, changing subjects from time to time, always coming back to the Three Continent discussion.

“You operated on three soldiers in the desert in one night under heavy fire?”

“No.”

Sherlock had a few other guesses, one involving espionage, and several involving grenades and artillery. And a creative one involving three bottles of scotch.

“Do you give up?”

Sherlock was quiet, staring back, an eye narrowed. “You stole currency from countries on three continents in one night.” John shook his head. “Another clue?”

“No. Say it: I give up.”

His jaw clenched while his mouth was quiet. John knew as surely as he knew anything else that Sherlock didn’t want to speak the words.

“It’s okay not to know. I’ll tell you, but I want your surrender first.”

The gaze that locked their eyes across the table was full of unspoken heat and messages. Surrendering had been exactly what Sherlock had done that first night, spreading his arms wide and letting Captain Watson in charge, to have his way. Moments passed, and finally John let his eyes drift down to Sherlock’s mouth, who - of course - noticed, licked his lips. John felt the first throes of desire pulse through him again, saw a slight flush creep up Sherlock’s neck. And it was a sweet and sexy thing indeed when Sherlock said in a catchy rough voice, “I give up.”

John pursed his lips, the heat of the moment still there but unable to squelch the humor he felt. “You’re not going to like it,” he said apologetically. Sherlock made a humming sound of frustration deep in his throat. “My favorite custom tea blend. From three continents. Oolong from Taiwan, Rooibos from Africa, and Earl Gray from England.”

++

John arrived home from work a few days later to find loose tea from a local teahouse, all three of his favorite flavors along with an infuser sitting quietly on the worktop in the kitchen. The sight warmed him as very little had ever done before.

++

Epilogue:

John’s night shift started out with problems of high census and no beds in any of the critical care units. He got a hand-off from the previous physician and was grateful, once again, for the slightly expanded coverage, not quite 24/7 that was finally up and running. His hours, therefore, were slightly more predictable but even today, when Sherlock received an urgent invite from Lestrade to join him at a suspicious crime scene, John was obviously, unreasonably - according to said detective - still needed at work. Flexibility was something that Sherlock had not quite figured out yet. So he dashed out of the flat grumbling at having to deal with the Scotland Yard imbeciles on his own while John sighed, shook his head, and finished his cuppa before heading to the hospital.

Utilizing beds was never something he particularly enjoyed. Sick patients were often moved off nursing units too soon, still too unstable, to make room for sicker more tenuous patients in order or to accommodate patients in need of admission from the A&E. And so no one was particularly happy to see him evaluating patients in order to move them to make more work for everyone. But even as they whinged at him for doing it, everyone was aware that this was the climate of healthcare.

So, somewhat after the evening was starting to settle, patients moved, the lights being dimmed, visitors finally heading home, John was enjoying that rare moment of relaxing at the desk in the ICU sharing combat stories with a few of the nurses. His mobile sounded. It was the A&E physician again.

Your presence has been requested.

John debated texting back, decided to simply show up. He bade farewell to the ICU, turned his steps downstairs.

The A&E was not nearly as busy as previously, although John knew first hand the best way to destroy any order there was to utter the word “quiet”. Not to mention, the nurses would fuss. The physician, engrossed in conversation, saw John, pointed to the treatment room.

Sherlock was sprawledon a stretcher, draped awkwardly over an exam table, his right arm wrapped in a large bandage and resting in an oversized basin. The dressing he could see was bloody, diluted, soaking in saline. His other arm was flung over his eyes, foot tapping, jaw clenched. Everything about his expression was annoyed, bored, irritated. “Nothing better to do tonight, eh?” John asked.

“What took you so long?” He lowered the arm over his eyes, squinted at the light insulting his vision. “I’ve been here for hours.”

John had picked up the clip, checked the time. “Right. 25 minutes.” He pulled on gloves, lifted a corner of the dressing. There was a gash 6 or 7 centimeters long on his posterior forearm. Defensive wounds, John noted. “They’ll be in to suture you in a few, I’m sure.”

“Absolutely not. Why do you think you’re here?”

“I’m not stitching your arm.”

“I’m not letting anyone else touch me.” His voice was low, and he lifted the wound toward John further, allowing a better look. “The gloves are a nice touch, wouldn’t want any body fluids on you, now, would you?”

John lifted his head, blue eyes boring into the amused and obnoxious expression of his non-patient. “Shut up.” He evaluated the edges (clean), the depth (not terribly deep), and the unlikelihood of nerve damage based on wound location. Sutures were in a rack on the wall of the treatment room. John sighed, checked his mobile again, said, “You know I might have to run out in the middle of this, right?”

“We can do this at home later, if you want. Lestrade made me come here, gave my name and everything at the desk.” He was disgusted at that apparently appalling behavior, and John, shaking his head at him, turned. He selected suture and needle size, lidocaine, syringe, and adjusted the overhead light.

“We’re not doing this later. In eight hours I’m going to be exhausted, and this is your bowing arm, hello, waiting would be stupid.” He pulled up the anesthetic, Sherlock was watching, just gestured to go ahead, so John continued, “So hopefully a few minutes with no urgent calls.” The needle slid in, infiltrated the edges of the wound with the lidocaine. Sherlock sucked in a big breath. “Yeah, oh, sorry, this might hurt a bit. Like a bee sting.”

“It’s okay, I don’t mind a bit of discomfort.” At that, John swallowed hard, feeling Sherlock watching him and waiting for the laughter he knew would be there if he made eye contact. A few stitches went in, then, with John carefully meeting wound edges, positioning the injured arm carefully on the tray table just under the worklight. He worked in silence for a bit, then paused to stretch. It was tedious, his shoulders cramping just a little.

“Still numb enough? I can place more lidocaine if you want.”

“One would think you like to poke me or something.”

John exhaled, resisting the urge to throttle his flatmate. “I’m trying to show you some compassion here. Because I know these can hurt.”

“It’s ok. Watching you work is a very pleasant distraction.” His voice was sultry, just gravelly enough to reach right to John’s chest. And lower.

“Stop that. Comments like that are not helping me at all.” He bent to the task again, happened to catch the slightest grimace of Sherlock’s face as he placed another suture. John attempted not to show the smile that was threatening, marginal success, he realized, under Sherlock’s intent scrutiny.

“Remember when you threatened me with sedation and restraints?”

He looked up, then, considered that Sherlock was looking rather pleased with himself. “Sherlock.” His tone was close to the had-enough-of-your-shenanigans quality.

“What?” He didn’t even attempt to act anything other than mischievous. John was briefly glad that his non-injured hand was too far away to misbehave with.

“You realize I will pay you plenty of attention when I’m not working, too. You don’t have to end up here regularly just because I can’t accompany you to every crime scene.”

“No, it’s not that. Obviously. You need to keep working. This program would be shit without you running it.” He waited until John acknowledged the comment, continued. “You know they’re going to offer you the directorship position, hire more people.”

“How would I know that?” The final suture went in crooked, and he pulled it, started again.

“Well,” he said, drawing out the word, “I guess you could call it inside information.” The last two words were as dirty as he could make them sound.

A laugh burst from John’s lips before he could prevent it. He slipped the last suture in, trimmed it close, turned the procedure light off. He arched his back again, rolled backwards on the wheeled stool he’d been perched on. “That’s good news, really. About the intensivist position, I mean.” Sherlock was just barely grinning, obviously with more of the story he couldn’t wait to tell. “Okay, just bloody out with it. What did you do?”

“I might have pushed a bit hard. They were going to do it anyway, I don’t see that it mattered when.” Shrugging, he smiled, continued, “I miss you when you’re working night shift. It’s boring in the flat.” He angled his arm, looking at the stitches. “Looks pretty good, I’d say.”

“Takes a steady hand. Which is saying a lot for anyone in close proximity to you.” His mobile went off, and he realized it was no small miracle it hadn’t prior to this. “Meet you in the call room?” When Sherlock made as if he were going to follow, John halted him. “You can’t just leave yet. There are discharge instructions, let the nurse bandage it, give you your paperwork. Try not to be a complete berk.”

John raised his mobile, calling the ICU, listened briefly, answered that he was on his way, disconnected. “See you upstairs in a few.”

“Try not to be too long. You won’t like it if I get bored again.”

"Don't worry. I am bringing restraints." 

fin