Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes had been at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital since the beginning of Molly Hooper’s afternoon shift in the forensic pathology laboratory.  His inducement to her for allowing his use of certain laboratory facilities was a promise of a step-by-step retelling at the dinner break of the steps he’d taken and deductions he’d made to solve a recent case for the (not with the) Metropolitan Police Service.  He found such recitations tedious, but they were the currency that purchased his relief from boredom between cases whilst not awakening his landlady in the wee hours, as his other hobbies tended to do.  The fact that he had an admirer of The Work had no bearing on the matter.  No, none at all.

When the Consulting Detective (“Only one in the world, Molly.”) and his acolyte emerged from the stairwell connecting the bowels of the building upward to the more populated levels, they were unable to get food (her) and coffee (him).  Employees lined the hallways of the ward they had to traverse on their way to the cafeteria.  From the lack of alarm, the sea of smiles, and the abundant animated conversations going on, it was obvious the hall line up was not in relation to an emergency.  When Sherlock observed that the end of the corridor was blocked by security with a professional photographer among them, he knew a visit by a politician or a royal was imminent.  He didn’t bother eavesdropping on Molly’s gossip with her fellow employees to find out which Personage was to grace them with their Presence today.  Dull.

As soon as he concluded that a Personage was about, he attempted to leave Molly to her excitement and retrace his steps.  He hoped to escape the spectacle of celebrity, with the bonus of not having to entertain Molly.  Fate was against him.  Retreat was now blocked by more security, one of whom Sherlock recognized as a supercilious Protection Officer he’d been introduced to at D.I. Lestrade’s office during a recent case.  He contemplated poking the bear with a bayonet of deductions, but decided against it since getting arrested would likely stop the flow of cases from Lestrade for some time.  Resigned to remain in place with his body, he resolved to escape with his mind.  Sherlock relaxed against a wall, preparing to divert himself by entering the entrance hall of his mind palace, but it was more difficult outside of his Baker Street environs.  Molly paced in front of him in a semi-circle, back and forth, back and forth, occasionally exchanging a high-pitched comment or two with a co-worker.  Distracting.

A shuffling of suits at the end of the hallway signaled the imminent arrival of the Personage.  The knot of worsted wool spat out a dress, the fabric quality and the design of which indicated that the Personage it enveloped was Princess Something-or-Other.  Sherlock attributed camera flashes as to why he didn’t immediately notice the bespoke cut of the 3-piece suit immediately behind Princess Whomever, but the height and, especially, the umbrella did not go unnoticed for more than half a second.  The Visitation had suddenly become so much fun: Mycroft was doing the dreaded field work.  Delicious.

They locked eyes across the length of the corridor.  A slight tic of Big Brother’s right eyelid spoke to his level of irritation at encountering Little Brother unexpectedly whilst doing something Big Brother hated.  Was Mycroft being punished or privileged?  Hopefully, probably, both.  Mycroft being hoisted on his own petard, with a juxtaposition of intended royal complement being perceived by the man himself as royal torture.  This much fun should be illegal.  Mycroft’s alabaster glare said that he wished it was outlawed so he could have Sherlock arrested.  Sherlock took care to hold his face in an expression of mock innocence.  Congratulations on your promotion to royal escort, Brother Mine.

If Mycroft had been in the habit of using curse words, Sherlock was certain the look he received in return would have said fuck off.  

It was glorious.

Chapter Text

Princess Whozzit shook hands and chatted with the staff.  She went into a patient’s room with a doctor, a nurse, a protection officer, a hospital administrator, and (of course) a photographer, leaving everyone else standing in the hallway looking at one another as they waited for the reappearance of the Personage.  Having thoroughly enjoyed Mycroft’s discomfiture, Sherlock took these moments to observe the hospital staff more closely. 

One person stood out – literally stood out – from the crowd: a doctor across and several persons away stood at parade rest in front of a storage closet door.  A stethoscope draped around his shoulders obscured the name on his white coat.  A slight misalignment of his shoulders indicated an old, severe injury to the left one.  His stance and almost military short cut of blondish hair, along with amused expression and bright eyes, said he’d seen many inspections by Personages during his time in the service and was entertained by his co-workers’ excitement.  This was confirmed when others looked to him and he nodded or shook his head or made a slight hand motion.  He was used to being a bridge between upper echelons and troops, he’d probably been a Captain or similar rank.  Afghanistan or Iraq?  Probably Iraq.  The murmur of the other employees faded into the background as Sherlock observed him.

Doctor/Captain noticed Sherlock staring and raised his left eyebrow in inquiry.  And why are you looking at me?  

Sherlock twitched a lip.  I see you are also amused by the crowd. 

A slight tip of the head.  Cheers.  Followed by a tip up of the chin.  Why are you amused? 

Sherlock made a side-eye at Mycroft, who was focused on Princess Royal Pain coming out of the patient’s room with her entourage. 

Doctor/Captain’s eyes (very blue) flicked between himself and Mycroft.  The smile almost broke out of its restraints when realization of their shared parentage and sibling rivalry dawned.  A slight eyeroll and nod told Sherlock that Doctor/Captain was familiar with sibling troubles.  I get it.

Molly, now passing in front of Sherlock again, got Doctor/Captain’s attention.  He raised both eyebrows.  Your girl? 

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and huffed.  Really??

When he looked up again, Doctor/Captain was smiling sideways, eyes crinkling at the edges.  OK, then.

It was Sherlock's turn to tip his head sideways and raise his eyebrows slightly.  If this Visitation is so old hat for you, why are you even here?

Doctor/Captain straightened up, head level, face blank.  Orders.  Then he shrugged and rolled his eyes.  Something out of the routine.  Then he tilted his chin down, looked at Sherlock from under his brows, and threw his head in Mycroft's direction.  Other than seeing that one suffer,... He drew his brows together.  ...you’re bored, right?

Sherlock gave a firm nod.  Indeed. 

Doctor/Captain bobbed his chin up twice in quick succession.  Come on, tell me then.  He narrowed his eyes.  Why are you here?  

It was Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes.  Do keep up.  He glared towards the cafeteria and clenched his jaw before looking back at Doctor/Captain.  I got caught in the crowd on the way to the café.

Doctor/Captain followed Sherlock’s look and his face transformed into a wide smile again.  He also flicked a glance towards the cafeteria before returning to Sherlock.  After this is over, we’ll do dinner.  He looked pointedly at Sherlock’s midsection.  You need to eat.  Then his face fell and he colored slightly in embarrassment.  Sorry, it’s a habit from being a doctor.

The blush was…adorable. 

Sherlock gave a small smile.  I understand.  And you’re right.  And I agree.

The relief on Doctor/Captain’s face was also adorable.  Right...OK…Good!

They stared at each other, having come to a pause.  Sherlock remarked to himself how refreshing this conversation was.  The vast majority of people said too little of importance with far too many words of no substance.  Here was someone who had a grand gift of silence and used it.

It was at that moment when the silence between them was broken by a tiny creak from behind Doctor/Captain in the storage closet.  His eyes became unfocused, looking down at the floor with a blank face.  He’d also heard the aberrant sound.  In a fraction of a second, his face set like steel as the Doctor retreated to the background and the Captain took control. 

Then the hallway convulsed with movement in every direction.

Chapter Text

A crashing cacophony of noise accompanied several things happening simultaneously.

Captain/Doctor dove for the door behind him, left hand towards the lever style handle and right hand reaching for his stethoscope.  He heaved himself off of his right foot, the force of his left shoulder colliding with the door and shoving it inward against the stop mechanism so hard that the resultant clang vibrated through the walls.  Sherlock lunged after him, shoving Molly aside, which elicited a supersonic squeal from her.  Mycroft, obviously having also heard the noise, bellowed at his minions.  Sherlock could hear minions (three, from the sound of it) already converging on the door like a herd of cows thundering down the hallway, whilst other minions herded the Personage and her entourage away.  In the background, he could also hear hospital staff retreating towards the cafeteria or into other rooms off the hallway, shouting in surprise as they enacted lockdown protocols. 

Sherlock got to the closet a second before the three minions.  It was a deep closet, a room really, full of high shelving and supplies.  Towards the back, he saw Captain/Doctor struggling to disarm a male assailant dressed as a nurse who'd been stealthy enough to hide in there despite all the security checks, but not stealthy enough to avoid making the small creaking sound that alerted the former soldier to his presence.  The attacker had a small calibre gun in one hand that the doctor was attempting to wrest away.  The stethoscope was on the floor, probably having been used in a whip-like fashion to disrupt the assailant’s initial aim with an element of surprise.

The two combatants were too far away for Sherlock’s immediate intervention.  They bounced off the shelving, side to side, supplies crashing onto the floor all around them, both grunting as they strived to gain control of the weapon.  Before Sherlock or the minions could enter the fray, the two men fell to the floor, sandwiched between the shelving.  As they hit the lino in a tangle of limbs, the gun went off between them. 

Sherlock involuntarily raised his hands to either side of his head because of the boom! in the enclosed space.  His ears rang.  The minions were trying to grab his arms and pull him out of the room.  It would not go well for them later with Mycroft that Little Brother was able to evade his lackeys in close quarters.

The attacker had gone mostly limp, arms ineffectively flailing against the doctor whilst the crimson stain on the torso of his white nurse’s uniform rapidly expanded.  For his part, the doctor’s chest was heaving as he now held the gun with his right hand and feebly blocked blows with the left, no more effectively than they were being delivered.  Sherlock was sure he would have heard labored, injurious breathing from both men (and the minions yelling at him to step away), if he hadn’t been temporarily deafened. 

Captain/Doctor’s eyes spoke for him as he raised his head.  His brow was scrunched in pain above a gruesome smile.  Got him.

Two minions gave up trying to remove Sherlock and pushed him to one side in order to drag the (former) attacker away to waiting medical personnel in the hallway.  Blood smeared on the floor.  One minion pulled a latex glove from his pocket, quickly tugged it on, and removed the gun from the doctor’s hand.  He left immediately to, no doubt, bring his trophy to Mycroft for a pat on the head.  Little did he know how stingy the British Government was with its praise.

Sherlock dove between the shelves and knelt in front of the doctor before the minions were replaced with medical staff.  His hands paused as he thought to reach out.  What can I do to help you?

Captain/Doctor looked down at his left arm that had now gone completely still.  His smile was now a grimace of pain and regret.  Nothing right now.  My shoulder is fucked.  Again.

Sherlock would have stayed, but his rapidly returning sense of hearing was telling him that medical personnel were behind him.  They were entreating him to let them work on their colleague.  He gave the doctor's right hand a squeeze and he winked as he tossed his head in the direction of the treatment team.  They'll take care of the man who saved a Princess.  He sketched a mock salute and smiled before moving out of the way.  Good job, soldier. 

The hero's grimace relaxed a little, but he groaned.  She's going to want to thank me in person!  Ugh!

Chapter Text

A week later, Sherlock walked the same hospital hallway, looking for a patient room. 

He’d heard all about Doctor/Captain's background whilst standing about in the hallway after the incident and listening to Molly gossip with the staff when the lockdown protocol was lifted.  Reading the accounts in the news outlets wasn't necessary, although it was impossible not to be bombarded with the story unless one lived under a rock.  The hero's name was John Watson, a veteran of the Afghanistan conflict (not Iraq - it was always something), formerly a Captain in the RAMC attached to the Army.  He’d been wounded in the left shoulder and invalided home.  The incident with the attacker had re-injured the shoulder and he needed surgery.  

Two days later, Sherlock had asked Molly about how long Doctor Watson would be in hospital.  She answered him with a smug look and a warning about not visiting too soon if he wanted any privacy.  She tutted in disbelief at his protestation that he was only interested in the crime.  (“There was no mystery in the crime and no mystery in the eyes you were making at each other.”)  She said he should wait a few days after the stream of official visitors stopped.  Princess Whomever indeed visited Doctor Watson in person, after MI5, MI6, hospital executives, the Prime Minister, and the rest of the British government in the person of Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock was reluctantly grateful to Molly for helping him avoid that encounter.

Today was the doctor’s last day in hospital, his last chance to visit.  Sherlock hoped Doctor Watson hadn't reconsidered the messages his eyes had sent.  He never guessed, but his experience of people was jaded.   

He paused in front of Doctor Watson’s room.  Eventually, he knocked.

“Come in.” 

It was the first time he'd heard the doctor's voice, a pleasant tenor.

Sherlock gently pushed open the door.  When he saw that Doctor Watson was not in bed, but fully dressed and sitting in a side chair, he quietly stepped into the room.  Watson's left arm was in a sling enclosing a soft device to immobilize his shoulder.  A table on wheels was within reach of his right hand and he was glaring at the tray on top of it, telegraphing that he'd been personally affronted by it, similar to the look Mycroft gave Sherlock across the corridor a week ago.  When he looked up and saw Sherlock, his face broke into a wide smile.

“Well, hello!  You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“I suppose I’m better to look at than that tray of – uhm – well, I’m not sure what that was supposed to be.  I would have to do a laboratory analysis to figure that one out.”

“They called it lunch when they brought it in here, but I call it inedible.”  He looked intensely at Sherlock.  “I would like to know what to call you…”

“The name's Sherlock Holmes.  Call me Sherlock.”

"Nice to meet you again, Sherlock. I’m…”

"John!"  A plump doctor with dark hair and glasses stepped into the room and around Sherlock.  Mike Stamford was the name on his white coat.  He carried an oversized envelope.

Watson looked at Sherlock, "Yes, I'm John," before turning to his colleague.  “What’s the word, Mike?  Can I finally get out of here for some real food?”

“Absolutely.  Sign here.”  He moved the tray of hazardous waste over and removed paperwork from the envelope which he laid on the small table.

“Well, it has to be a scribble instead of a signature, since my best wing is broken.  Again.”  John took a pen produced by the other doctor from a pocket and literally scribbled his name on the top sheet.

“We’ll set you right, mate.  It's a royal decree, after all."  

John groaned.  "Don't make me see her again, all that pomp and perfume."

Mike chuckled before continuing, "There’s a follow up appointment notice and prescriptions in this bunch.  We'll talk about a referral to PT next week.”  He slid the papers into the envelope and put it in John's right hand.  “You have a ride home?”  He looked between John and his visitor.

Sherlock took a step forward.  "Absolutely."

Both doctors' eyebrows popped up. 

Stamford shook Watson's hand.  “Great!  I’ll see you next week then.  You're a lucky bastard and a brave one, John.  It's good to know you."

That adorable blush was back, which in turn made Sherlock braver.

When Doctor Stamford bustled out, John demurred.  “Thanks for the offer, Sherlock, but you don’t have to…”

"John, one thing you’ll learn about me is I don’t make idle offers."

"Oh."  John smiled in relief.  "That's fine then.  It's all fine."

The moment stretched as they stared at one another, like the time in the hallway just before all hell had broken loose.  

Sherlock finally cleared his throat.  He waved in the direction of the decomposing slag on the luncheon tray and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.  Dinner?

John practically jumped out of his chair in his enthusiasm.  Starving!