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A clock ticks in the silence, broken only by the occasional cough, a shuffle of feet, the flipping of a newspaper. Despite the calm atmosphere, the two men occupying the room do not really want to be there, and are dreading the next hour. At least there isn’t much of a wait time.
“Mr Lestrade?” A tall man in scrubs enters the waiting room, his curly hair tucked back behind his ears, arms laden with files. “Follow me, please.”
The man heaves himself from his chair, smiling politely at the other patient as he passes, who, with nobody around to see, has a cheeky ogle of the guy’s pert little bottom. Lestrade, a tanned man just shorter than the assistant nurse, scrubs a hand through his silver hair as he enters the other room.
“Ah, good morning Mr Lestrade. My name is Doctor Watson, and this is my assistant Lock.” They shake hands as Lestrade takes a seat.
“Lovely to meet you doc.”
“How may I help you today?”
Lestrade sighs dejectedly. “Right, well, I’ve been getting some tummy pains on and off for a while. Headaches, tiredness, aching joints.”
“You’re getting old.” Lock interjects, checking the birthdate on Lestrade’s file.
“Mind my assistant,” Doctor Watson shoves Lock warningly, then turns back to his patient with a placid smile. “How long has this been going on for?”
“About a week now.”
“Have you been for a poo?” The medics can’t help but giggle at that, and Lestrade blushes, wondering what kind of unprofessional GP surgery he has registered to. With flushed cheeks, he nods. “I’ll have to exanim- examine you. Hop up on the table for me please.”
And how bizarre, that the gurney is a dining room table covered in a sheet. Shrugging, Greg obeys, swinging his legs up so he can lie down. “Have you got a cushion?”
“Oh, no need.” Lock says with a smirk. He opens up a medical kit — and is that made of plastic? — then lines it all up for the doctor to peruse through. He starts simple: checking Lestrade’s inner ear temperature with a small device that beeps rather loudly at the side of his head, and then the doctor has him open his mouth for a long wooden stick to be shoved inside, depressing his tongue down.
“Say ahhh.”
“Ahhh.” Lestrade gags, recoiling back as the stick bullies its way down his throat.
“Lovely.” Doctor Watson gestures to Lock, who scribbles down his findings with a wiggly worm pen. Cute.
“Oh, ow, bright!” Lestrade winces, retreating from a bright pinpoint of light shined directly in his eye, but the doctor pulls his arm away, having a good look, flicking the light away and back again to test his pupil reflexes, before examining the second one.
“Hold still please sir.” Lestrade does, only to get it over with faster, and when the doctor hums his approval, Lock writing the results down, he is given reprieve. He can scarcely see, blinking away dark spots covering his vision as his shirt is unceremoniously rucked up to reveal his torso.
A cold circle presses against him, shifting around his tummy, then up towards his chest. He follows the doctor’s instructions, breathing in and out slowly, coughing, leaning forward so his back side can be checked too. There’s no infection, thankfully, but he didn’t come in for a cough or a wheezy chest. Why any of this had to be done whilst he was lying down, he’s unsure, but that wicked little nurse seems to be getting plenty of enjoyment out of his predicament.
“Is he all up to date with his jabs, nurse Lock?”
Lock hums, tapping the page with his pen. “Hm, no, he seems to be missing a few.”
Lestrade jerks up. “Wait, what, no I’m not!”
“According to your records, you are. Not to worry, we’ll just do it now.” Lock grins with a bit too much teeth to be genial.
“Try not to panic, Mr Lestrade, we’ll be done in a jiffy!” The doctor is hardly reassuring when he’s trying not to laugh, bodily blocking his patient’s view of the nurse clattering about on the table by his feet.
Before he can get off the ‘bed’ and storm out, there’s a sharp point jabbing into his tummy. “Ow!”
“Sting!” Nurse lock yells. He doesn’t stop there, aiming for one arm, “sting!” And the other, “sting!” And then the neck, for some reason. “Sting sting sting!”
“Ouchh, no more, please!”
Watson and Lock high five over his head as he gasps. “Good job nurse. Well done Mr Lestrade. Now you’re back on track.”
Lock, extremely pleased with his work, kisses each injection site better, then applies a few plasters to his wounds, which are more plastic cuffs that squeeze his skin together uncomfortably. But they aren’t yet finished. Lestrade is pulled into a sitting position, and from there each of his limbs are manipulated so Doctor Watson can test his reflexes. He uses a small mallet to work his way from top to toe, each joint spasming and jumping out, from ankles to knees, shoulders to wrists.
The doctor, he cannot deny, is thorough. He’s put through more testing, where he must puff out his cheeks, track a moving finger, stand on one foot, raise his eyebrows, push and pull at the doctor with hands and feet. He seems to pass with flying colours, judging by the nods of approval and Lock’s frantic scribbles.
“Now to address the problem. Lie down please.” Nervous, he obeys, expecting another set of jabs. Instead, the doctor clambers onto the table, straddling his thighs, unlike any other doctor’s appointment he’s ever been to.
“What are you doing?”
“Palpating,” Dr Watson announces casually, “you said you had tummy ache, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes.” Lestrade takes some deep breaths as his doctor starts to work, pressing and prodding and pushing all over Lestrade’s abdomen as he points out where is tender, and what hurts (in truth, most of it, but that’s only because of how hard the doctor’s pressing down).
“Roll over please.”
There’s a strange silence, yet he does as he’s told, and when he’s lying facedown, the sheet bunched up under his chin, he squawks and tries to recoil as someone yanks his jogging bottoms and underwear down. “Hey!”
“Sting!”
A sharp jab goes right into his butt cheek, but just as quickly as it comes it is done, and Lestrade is rolled back over so the doctor can apply a snap band around his arm. “Good job sir. Hold still and don’t speak.”
Lestrade waits in silence, glaring daggers at the gleeful nurse jotting things down as he drops his needle, plunger and all, back into the medical kit.
“Your blood pressure is a bit high, sir.” Doctor says, and there’s a twinkle in his eye. Cheeky bugger.
Electing to ignore it, desperate for his appointment to be over, Lestrade asks, “so, what’s the problem, doc?”
“You appear to be lackin’ vit’min CH.”
“I’ve not heard of that one, what is it?”
“Vitamin choccie.” Greg just about stops himself from snorting, but he’s unable to school his smile. “You’ll have to stock up.”
“Eat plenty of choccie sir! And give some to your kids.” Lock winks.
“Oh, yes, I am sure they’ll need it too, if you’re suffering.” Dr Watson nods approvingly, pleased with his nurse’s intuition.
“Of course. Is that all, then? No prescription?”
“I have one right here.” The doctor simulates the noise of a printer, pulling some green paper out of a pile. He scribbles something down, then doodles a bar of chocolate, rips it from the rest of the paper and hands it over. “Give this to any shop and they’ll give you all the choccie you need.”
“That’s good. Thanks so much for your help.”
“Is been a pleasure!” Lock says, “but one final thing.”
Lestrade glances over his shoulder. “Hm, whassat- ow!”
“Sting!” Lock cries, holding his plastic inoculate aloft.
“Excellent work, nurse. Have a good rest of your day sir. Lock, call in the next patient.”
“Mr Holmes?” The last man in the waiting room looks up to see the assistant holding a file as the previous patient shuffles out of the room past him, wincing and rubbing his arm. Holmes swallows thickly.