Chapter Text
“In there,” Sherlock said tersely.
The man gave him a brief, sharp glance, but went unerringly to the cabinet beside the sink, as if he already knew where to look, as if this were not his first time under the roof of 221 Baker Street.
The stranger rummaged through the satchel containing Sherlock’s medical supplies, and then beckoned him forward into the tiny lavatory.
The man had stood listening to Sherlock play for twenty minutes, despite the cold, then come forward to drop a very small coin into the violin case, and had seen the blood trickling down Sherlock’s wrist.
“It’s not serious,” Sherlock had said off-handedly, lifting his violin to begin the next piece.
“Oh, no you don’t.” The man had reached forward suddenly, catching the neck of the violin. “It’s only going to get worse if you keep playing. You could do with stitches.”
Sherlock didn’t like anyone else touching his violin, but he did like being surprised. “Know any doctors, Doctor?”
Now, in 221b, the doctor worked in silence until Sherlock’s knuckle closed up underneath a neat black fence of stitches. “There,” he said, looking up at last. “Now take care of those hands, yeah?”
Sherlock was grudgingly impressed. “Ever been a musician’s medical assistant?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
The man smiled. “I could be.”