Work Text:
“Watson.” Sherlock says, standing in Joan’s bedroom doorway like an old ghost back to haunt her. “I require your assistance.”
“Why don’t you ever call me Joan? Even Captain Gregson does.” Joan doesn’t look up from her book as she speaks. She can’t read and talk, she isn’t that good, but she’s at the end of her chapter anyway so she might as well keep up appearances.
“For the same reason you call Captain Gregson, Captain Gregson. You have respect for him and his authority, as do I for you.” Sherlock gesticulates with one hand as he talks. The other is in his pocket. “That isn’t what I came here to ask you about.”
“Alright, what did you want to ask me?” Joan puts down her book and looks up at him with a slight smile. She's surprised that he thinks she has any authority over him.
She pretends to be more bothered by his interruptions than she generally is. Of course, he’s often very annoying, but sometimes it’s nice to be taken on some side quest that he has going on. One of Sherlock’s irregulars - a younger girl who is some sort of expert on Russian literature - called them side quests. Apparently it’s a video game thing. Joan likes the term, so she stole it.
“I have an appointment tomorrow, and I was wondering if you would accompany me.” Sherlock asks, hands behind his back to hide that he’s picking at his thumbnails.
“Sure. I don’t have plans tomorrow.” Joan agrees. Then she thinks to ask, “I go basically everywhere with you anyway, why did you feel the need to ask?”
“Well, because it’s a hospital appointment.” Sherlock explains. “And I know you have an aversion to the medical profession.”
“I don’t have an aversion, I just don’t have my license anymore.” She insists. Ah, there he is. Good old infuriating Sherlock. “Are you scared of hospitals?”
“No, of course not. You’ve seen me in several.” He points out, which is true. “No, I have been informed that this appointment will involve needles and, as you can imagine, I am not the biggest fan of those.”
“I’ve seen you handle needles.”
“Not ones that are going into me, Watson.”
“I’ve watched you tattoo yourself.”
“Very different to some nurse poking around in my veins.” Sherlock sighs. “Do I have to say please?”
“It might help.”
“Please.”
“Say it nicer.”
“Please, Watson.”
“There we go. Sure, what time is the appointment?”
The appointment isn’t early, so Joan has time to go on a run and eat breakfast before Sherlock is even out of bed. She convinces him to consume something other than coffee, then shepherds him into a short sleeve t-shirt so he doesn’t have to take his whole shirt off in order for the nurse to take blood. For someone so intelligent, he is rather stupid.
They take the subway to the hospital. Sherlock drums his fingers against his leg the whole time, foot tapping on the ground. Joan reads her book, until he leans over and whispers in her ear.
“Someone over there is having an affair. Which one?” He nods to a group of three people, one woman and two men, talking idly to each other at the opposite end of the carriage.
This is their subway game. Sherlock uses his ever sharp deduction skills to make an observation, then sees if Joan concurs. Sometimes she does, sometimes she doesn’t. They present their evidence to each other, and hope the person on the train car doesn’t realise they’re staring at them.
“Trick question.” Joan mumbles after a moment of observation. “The two guys are having affairs with each other and the woman is asexual.”
“Is she?” Sherlock asks.
“Black ring on her middle finger. It’s a symbol for asexual people. A signal to each other.” Joan goes back to her book. “I thought you would know that.”
“Being sexually liberated does not give me an encyclopaedic knowledge of the queer community, Watson.”
The hospital is busy but not overly so. Joan has definitely seen worse. She remembers the Christmases she worked. You could barely move due to the amount of people crowded around.
They sit in the waiting room for a while. The nurse is running late, which makes Sherlock huff and grumble.
“It’s not her fault, things like this happen.” Joan reminds him calmly.
“I could be working on a case right now.” He mutters.
“Tell me you aren’t working on at least one in your head right now.” She whispers back.
“True, I am analysing the JonBenét Ramsey case again, but that is not exactly a difficult exercise.” He says. “Everyone knows there was no intruder-”
“Sherlock Holmes?” A nurse calls from a side room.
Joan has to push Sherlock towards the room so he doesn’t run off. She didn’t realise he was this afraid of needles. Sure, he’s an ex-addict, they’re going to upset him. But this seems like a more deep rooted fear. He probably won’t ever want to talk about it but it’s good for her to know.
The nurse talks through what they’re going to do - draw blood for a routine check up - while Joan nods along. Sherlock stares at the opposite wall, unmoving, for the duration of the nurse's explanation, until she asks for his arm. Then he shakes his head furiously.
“No, no, sorry.” He holds his hand up. “I can’t. Sorry, I can’t allow this.”
“Sherlock-” Joan sighs. He's so damn stubborn.
“Watson, I need you to do it.” He insists.
“Sir, I’m perfectly qualified to take your blood.” The nurse tells him, keeping her professional composure. Joan can practically hear her eyes rolling, though.
“Yes, I’m sure you’re very good at your job. But no, I need it to be someone I trust.” Sherlock says. He raises his eyebrows at Joan. “Watson? Surely letting your licence expire didn’t lose you all your medical expertise.”
Joan baulks. She hasn’t taken blood since… well, she doesn’t even know. Doctors don’t generally take blood. That’s what they have nurses and medical students for. She probably hasn’t done this since she was a medical student.
And now Sherlock wants her to take some from him? The guy with heroin veins? Is he serious?
“No, Sherlock, come on. The nice nurse won’t hurt you-”
“Don’t patronise me, I know. I know, logically, that this nurse is the most qualified person to take my blood. Unfortunately, cold logic does not help me here.” He takes a shaky breath. “Please, Watson. I don’t trust anyone else.”
“I-” Joan looks over at the nurse, who just shrugs. She is not going to be any help here. “I could get sued and arrested for practicing without a license.”
“Only if I sue you or tell anyone, which I won’t. If you haven’t noticed, I’m very good at lying to the police.” Sherlock says - he has a point. He looks over at the nurse. “It won’t take long, will it?”
“No, it won’t.” The nurse looks almost amused, like she actually wants to see if this will happen. Surely that’s a violation of hospital policy, but Joan isn’t a snitch.
“I- Goddamnit, fine. Fine!” Joan sanitises her hands and snaps on a pair of latex gloves. “One of these days, you’re going to get me in serious trouble.”
“Unlike the unserious trouble that I get you into regularly.”
“You’re being awful mouthy to someone who is about to stick a needle in you.” Joan mutters.
She preps the needle and the collection tubes while Sherlock rolls up his sleeve and closes his eyes. It’s not actually that hard to find a vein in his upper arm, but she makes a meal of smacking his arm to bring it up. He curses at her, but remains still enough for her to slip the needle in.
“Ow.” He complains.
“Don’t be a baby.” Joan mutters. “How many vials do you need?”
“How much do you like him?” The nurse asks as she watches on. Joan snorts and Sherlock gives them both a disapproving glare. “Two should be fine.”
“Gotcha.” Joan mumbles, waiting for the first vial to fill before switching them over.
When she’s finally done, she pulls the needle out and puts gauze over the puncture site. The nurse takes over sealing and labelling the vials while Joan patches Sherlock up. She tapes the gauze down and pats him on the knee.
“Would you like a lollipop?” Joan asks, gesturing to the bowl of them sitting on the side table.
Sherlock glares at her for a moment before asking, “Do they have green apple ones?”
She rummages around until she finds one. He takes it from her with a nod and unwraps it, popping it into his mouth. Glancing at the nurse, who isn’t paying attention, Joan pockets a cherry one for herself.
“Thank you, Watson.” Sherlock finally says when they’re on the subway home. “It was very good of you to do that for me.”
“I would have appreciated some warning that that’s what was going to happen.” Joan says. She’s left her book in her bag this time, content in people watching with him.
“If I had told you, you would have refused to come.”
“So you lied.”
“A white lie to benefit us both.”
“How does that benefit me?”
“Well, it proved that you still have the ability to practice medicine.”
“Drawing a couple of vials of blood is hardly practicing medicine.”
“A day sober is hardly ten years. Baby steps, Watson, baby steps.”
Joan considers it for a moment, then says. “I’m not renewing my licence.”
“I don’t expect you to. I just wanted to present the possibility that you are capable of everything that you were before the death of your patient.” Sherlock says. “With the added benefit of getting my blood drawn - a frankly terrifying endeavour - by the person I trust most in this world.”
She smiles. “You’re welcome. And thank you. I didn’t need reminding that I can practice but I appreciate the thought.”
“That’s me. Thoughtful.” Sherlock taps his temple. They sit in silence for a moment, then he whispers, “Which of the people across from us do you think has clinical depression?”