Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Sherlock characters.

John's POV

He knew it had gone badly. To be honest he still had trouble believing that he could have screwed up so royally. All Sherlock had asked him to do was go to the murdered Chris Costello's home and find out if he had any unusual hobbies. How in the name of all that was gracious had he managed to get into a massive fight, give away the fact that Sherlock was on the case to the suspect and as if that wasn't enough he also managed to find himself rejected by Sarah when he had gone to the surgery for help.

He scowled, he'd looked a mess when he'd walked into the surgery needing patching up. Sarah had taken one look at him and directed him to a private room where she gave him all sorts of bandages and some temporary pain medication, the strongest morphine, not that it was really working.

"So what was it this time, more Chinese wrestlers," She joked.

"No, brutal murder case!" he groaned whilst stitching his own abdomen where a shallow scratch had drawn a bit more blood than it should have.

"Do you not think you should be more careful with yourself?" Sarah replied through the crack in the doorway.

"Not really," John had said. "It has to be done…well what I mean is…"

"You have to help the consulting detective," Sarah finished unhelpfully. "You did remember we had a date tonight didn't you?"

John could have kicked himself, but he'd had been subjected to that enough already. Of course he was supposed to take Sarah to the Theatre to see Frankenstein tonight. Ok it wasn't romantic but it he had heard brilliant reviews from all those who had gone and yes he had forgotten.

His silence spoke a thousand words. Sarah sighed.

"This isn't going to work is it?"

John wanted to reply but for some reason the words just wouldn't come out of his mouth, he smiled briefly thinking of just how much people would pay to hear Sherlock go speechless just once. He'd snapped out of his reverie to hear heels walking away down the hall. So that was that then. John's pride from serving in the army seemed to eradicated his wish to beg for things to be set straight. Holding his head level and blanking his face he had left the surgery, guessing he wouldn't be back too soon.

Turning into York Street, John knew Sherlock would have already deduced that something was wrong, he shouldn't have been gone for so long. Grimacing as he rounded into Baker Street he contemplated if it was worth trying to conjure up a lie? Probably not.

Sherlock's POV

So were was the evidence?

Point one, John had been gone for three hours forty two minutes and fifty six seconds longer than he should have.

Point two, John had not texted, or called with any evidence of what he'd found.

Deduction: John had found no evidence, hardly surprising. Sherlock already knew he wouldn't he just wanted John out of the house so he could hack into his laptop and do some toxin research.

What had happened?

Point one, John should have returned now by cab the journey should have taken twenty minutes at the most. He hadn't.

Point two, John's text's or calls, even just to tell him to get off his laptop, had not arrived.

Point three, There had been an alarmed call from D.I. Lestrade to inform him that the suspect had been seen fleeing onto the Eurostar train at King's Cross.

Deduction: John's lack of contact suggested his phone had been broken, he was too careful to lose it. The length of the time John's had been absent showed he must have walked around for a while or rather was walking home. The suspect had fled to Paris so he knew he was being followed. Conclusion suspect must have ran into John at Costello's flat, got into a fight in which John's phone had been smashed, thought he was been pursued and fled. John had walked to the surgery not fifteen minutes away from the flat to patch himself up. Must have been rejected by Sarah otherwise he wouldn't have walked back to 221B.

Analysis, suspect clearly involved but not guilty of murder, fled abroad to warn somebody else. Trail would now be cold, Lestrade was too slow and John really was that bigger of an idiot, as he'd suspected.

Was it worth playing John along for bit? Probably not.

John's POV

He paused outside the door, the brass address and knocker never looked so foreboding. He was sore, cold and humiliated. Well at least it couldn't get worse. He slotted the keys into the lock and turned letting himself in, the heat wave that hit him was very welcome. London was bitter in the winter and far too hot in the summer. He shrugged out of his coat with some trouble trying not to stretch his abdominal cavity muscles too much and remembering that Sherlock noticed everything climbed the staircase as normally as he could. He'd started paying attention to everything he did, in case he ever needed to deceive Sherlock, not it was time to see if it paid off. It didn't.

Sherlock was typing furiously on his laptop when he entered the main suite.

"Couldn't be bothered to get your own again." he stated. It wasn't a question and Sherlock didn't treat it as one.

"So…anything good?" he tried, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. So much for normal.

"No. I see you managed to do a fine job of _helping_ in my current case John." The mixture of bluntness, sarcasm and iciness in Sherlock's tone told him just how annoyed with him the detective actually was.

"Do I even need to explain what happened?"

"No." The laptop lid was closed sharply and Sherlock sat with his fingers steepled in the customary concentration position. This was normally a sign for John to stop asking dull questions. Silence descended in 221B and it was awkward. Neither of them moved for around two minutes, the John decided he needed some tea.

"No milk."

"I'll go and get some then."

"Shouldn't you rest… doctor that abdomen has to hurt. Shallow cut but right on the nerve impulse line, correct?"

John nodded but still made for the door. He knew Sherlock was in no real mood for conversation when he was like this. It was better to leave him alone at times like this. John had just gotten his coat on, when something brushed past him, it was Sherlock. He turned to see the man dressed in coat and scarf, before he'd opened his mouth Sherlock opened the door, stepped out and slammed it shut behind him.

"I think I'd better go to Lestrade and tell him the _good news."_


	2. Chapter 2

John's POV

John went back upstairs still in his coat and sat down awkwardly in his chair. Ok he knew he had would hit a nerve when he came back empty handed but still… Sherlock never went to get the milk or shopping of any kind, it was a far to dull job to even be contemplated in Sherlock's mind. Did Sherlock even know how to get to the nearest store? Did he know which milk to buy? John shook his head, when Sherlock came back he would make a point of staying out of his way for a while he knew his very presence would irritate the man. John figured should probably look at some patient records in his file it was laborious but it was compulsory. However he stayed in the chair it wasn't until two hours later that he felt sore and cold and realisation dawned on him. Sherlock had not come back.

It wasn't the first time, sometimes the consulting detective would be gone for days and then return aggravating John greatly. He worried about Sherlock though he was unsure why. Sure Sherlock got into every kind of mess possible both legal and illegal but he always got out of it with relative safety.

By ten o' clock John was extremely tired, the cut was starting to sting as the morphine wore off and although he had dealt with far, far worse injuries his bodily state of health was at an all time low. He decided he should go to bed, Sherlock obviously wasn't coming back till later tonight which didn't surprise him, in fact he would have been highly surprised if twenty minutes after he left Sherlock had turned up with the milk. Peeling himself from the chair John headed up towards his room. It was small not much bigger than the room he had occupied before being introduced to the detective, but it was considerably more cosy and comfortable. John smiled as he entered the room, his military training rubbing off in the neatness of where everything was. He didn't even want to consider what bombsite Sherlock inhabited. Shrugging out of his coat he hung it on the door and went to lay on the bed, placing his shoes by the bed. He used to leave them in the wardrobe, then Sherlock started dragging him round London at the most ridiculous hours and he'd learnt to keep his clothes where they quickly accessible.

As John laid down with relative difficulty the cut was really stinging now he thought about where Sherlock was and a worried thought crossed his mind as he drifted off.

"What if he's not coming back?"

Sherlock's POV

In all fairness he tried to get the milk, but naturally by the time he'd reached the store the prospective notion of what he was wasting his precious mental capacity on kicked in and he decided not to bother. He may as well go back to Baker Street and tend to his coagulation of Saliva experiment. But upon rounding into Baker Street, John's failure slipped to the forefront of his consciousness. Idiot! Why couldn't he just think? Sherlock knew he was stupid but still! Pausing outside 221B Sherlock's mind divided unusually into two.

One half thought, "Just go in, ignore him for a bit, he'll get the message but he'll know your safe."

The other said "Why don't you worry him for a while, consider it payment for ruining your life. Remember your work is your life!"

Sherlock knew John both noticed and worried when he was not there, as much as he was a sociopath, Sherlock also recognised displayed emotion. He didn't really care after all what was the point? His welfare was not John's responsibility or concern. But John was starting to grate on him, he would never normally have considered of how his actions would make other people feel, but the previous division confirmed he was starting to. Still he had ignored that side of him up until now, why should he stop.

Turning away from 221B, he walked to a small cut through and stayed there watching the flat as the night drew in. By ten o' clock he knew his body temperature had dropped from 36C to 34C but it was no real cause for concern. Focused still on the main window Sherlock saw a shadow pass from where it had been at 55cm away from the fireplace. Then the light somebody an elderly woman, Mrs Hudson came to window closed the curtains and then turned out the lights as she left. Sherlock waited for another twenty five minutes precisely, then walked across to the front door, slipped silently inside and headed up to his room, mobile in hand.

His mind was formulating a genius but little revenge plot for John.

John's POV

John woke up at five thirty in the morning. It was still dark but in Afghanistan it would have been brilliant sunshine and he would have already been on duty. He laid still for a while yet listening. 221B was silent, not a sound to be heard. John decided not to move around, he didn't want to disturb the rare peace found in his home. Yet he was dying to know if Sherlock had gotten back last night.

He forced himself to wait for another two hours, until he heard Mrs Hudson get up. Then quietly he got up slowly, showered awkwardly and went into the kitchen. He was going to have to drop round Bart's today and get some more morphine from Stamford. Almost impossibly for such a small scratch he was in even more pain than he had been before, but ever the soldier he never let on.

After finding nothing for breakfast but discovering another saliva experiment, John turned his attention to the main room. He looked closely for any disturbance that might have indicated that Sherlock was back, there was none. John resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock had not come home. He was always up early and would have been around the flat now.

He sighed sadly, he should get to Bart's before it became really busy and Stamford became unavailable. Whilst there he decided he may as well ask if there were any jobs available, someone had to pay the third and final notices.

Grabbing his coat from the hook on his door, he ran into Mrs Hudson on his way out.

"Ooh are you off then dear?"

"Yes Mrs Hudson, I erm don't suppose he came back last night did he?" He asked not feeling hopeful.

"No dear, I heard no-one come in after I locked up."

"Oh well I'm sure he'll turn up." John replied to reassure her, she did care for Sherlock no matter how bad a tenant he was.

As he left 221B and hailed a cab, John groaned almost silently. Why did it hurt so much?

Sherlock's POV

Well the initial step had gone smoothly. He knew precisely when John would wake up, get up and leave Baker Street. Forcing himself to be silent until then had been a hardship. As soon as John was gone, he jumped out of his room and took up his Stradivarius. Mid way through playing Palladio, Sherlock was interrupted by a startled Mrs Hudson who had wondered who was upstairs.

"I didn't realised you were back Sherlock, John was asking for you." She scolded him but gently.

"Oh I came back early this morning. Case." Sherlock lied smoothly.

"Well you'd better tell him your back then." Mrs Hudson commented as she left taking the large pile of filthy laundry with her.

Sherlock resumed playing whilst his brain continued thinking.

One half said. "Stop this. Stop it now! Before you really do some damage."

The other said. "You are an utter genius creating this little plan. Why stop now?"

Traditionally Sherlock listened to that half and this was no exception.

Thank you to those who have reviewed and read my story. Your time is much appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock's POV

He had taken the phone out of the inside blazer pocket and dialled three numbers in succession the plan had been formed in full whilst the musical notes had soared from his fingertips. Being a consulting detective gave you little advantages like being able to predict how somebody would react to a question or action, or how to manipulate people to get the desired effect whilst covering your involvement. Three simple people Stamford, Lestrade and Sarah was all he had to manipulate to get a little revenge.

Of course he knew how John was going to react when he found out the little plan and resigned himself to the boring lecture that would doubtlessly follow. But until then perhaps his valuable time would be better spent on renewing the ruined saliva coagulation experiment. He had cursed badly when he found that due to the hours of neglect the saliva had overflowed from the slowing decomposing head and thousands of bacterial cultures would have infected the exposed salvia, effectively contaminating the contained salvia and invalidating valuable evidence. For goodness sake John was a doctor, and an experienced one he knew science and how to moderate and safely conduct experiments. Was he really asking too much for John just to respect and care for his work especially as he had made a significant improvement in his mannerisms after taking note of John's criticisms. Once again his mind returned to the plan and glancing at his watch he smirked. It was time for it to begin!

John's POV

The taxi ride was short and mostly unpleasant. Having being accustomed to constant orders and hails of gunfire and grenades he rarely enjoyed silence anymore, he was still too prone to horrific flashbacks. Due to travelling with Sherlock all the time taxi drivers now tended to remain quiet around him particularly as Sherlock snapped and humiliated them if they broke his train of thought. Occupied shop and business windows sped by and he didn't see one of them. He was extremely thankful when the taxi jerked to a stop as he wouldn't have been forced out of his reveries. He paid the driver and got out of the taxi too fast, musing that the one good thing about flashbacks was they distracted you from the reality of current situations. Clutching at his side he entered the familiar hospital through the unfamiliar doors. He never used the traditional patient doors. As a fellow doctor and also in the accompaniment of Sherlock he was privy to the private entrances around the back, but this time he was a patient and also it was respectful and humbling to showing that you didn't abuse your privileges. He moved to the front desk and joined the elongated queue of disgruntled people. He could see both arguments concerning their grumbling. On one hand if you were in pain you came to the hospital to get relief and heal quickly to allow you to continue with your day. Ten hours for the ever growing number of nurses and doctors to look at a deep graze and gauze it did seem ridiculous. On the other hand a graze was still a graze and potentially fatal emergencies were always arriving. It was a doctors prerogative to cure those in immediate need and then treat those with lesser injuries. Afghanistan had taught him the true doctors role more than anything else. After ten minutes he made it to the desk and a stressed receptionist looked up at him. She had been engaged the ring had left an imprint on her finger but was no longer there. The absence of a wedding ring meant the engagement ring was not in repair so it had broken off. The imprint suggested a long engagement and the tired eyes also dictated the frivolous life of somebody on the rebound. Oh rats he mused I'm turning into Sherlock.

"What name is it?"

"Watson, John Watson MD." The receptionist shot him a pointed look. He cursed mentally he had to stop advertising his position to everyone. Again identification in Afghanistan had taken it's toll.

"What's the problem then Doctor?"

"Small scratch, it may be infected." He gave the basic reply no point digging yourself a bigger hole.

"May be?"

"I am certain of it!" This time more emphasis

"Well wait with the others then you'll be called when there is an available position." It was an automated response he could tell by the tone.

"Actually can you see if Mike Stamford is available?" Again another pointed look, this one bore more curiosity though. He thought on his feet.

"I need to discuss some personal matters as well!" Enough firmness to dictate his will but not enough for it to be an outright demand.

The receptionist checked and said, "He's available in half and hour got a class now." Her grammar was appalling Sherlock would have had a field day.

"I'll wait thank you." He turned away as the receptionist began tapping away and took a seat.

Sherlock's POV

He was bored. Really bored. He was so bored he was now watching Jeremy Kyle, well half watching it. Eventually he threw the remote at the television and by pure luck it hit the off switch. Stretching his limbs out and steepling his fingers together he began the process of deleting invaluable information. As the hard drive cleared itself a slither of information avoided the recycle bin and made its way to the front of the memory board. Wondering why Sherlock focussed on it and the scene took fruition. It was the first day he had met John it was like watching the scene from an omniscient person. He was showing John around 221B or rather pointing out where his items were and ignoring John's expressions of incredulity. The scene blurred and flashed to later that same day.

"Why would she still be upset it was fourteen years ago." The flat went quiet. John just stared and shook his head slightly.

"Bit not good?"

"A bit not good yeah," Came the reply. Time to change to subject move on. Except the image did not move on it repeated itself over and over again like the repeat switch was stuck. Why he wondered he studied the memory again and again and then something struck him. Trying to apply the understanding of the principal of emotions he finally hit the result. The expressions the shake of the head they were all symbols of disappointment!

The thought had never occurred to him before. He was disappointed in John, in everyone they couldn't match up to him, they never understood him. But he had never assumed that maybe in certain ways that was what he was to other people. Lestrade gave him the benefit of the doubt, Anderson annoyed him but then the actions were mutual and Mycroft his own brother condescended him, viewing his actions as appropriate but his motives for involvement disappointing. Did John feel the same? He always said he was brilliant or meretricious but… "Ah now you understand finally," His mind shot back "You realise the affects you have on people, your human, your equal to others in many respects but in others…you have failings just like John!"

John's POV

Half an hour had mutated into nearly two hours. He was now standing by the windows as a young child who needed to sit down had been brought in to wait. John had courteously given up his seat for the youngster and his mother but neither had regarded him with any reply. Sighing John assumed it was only what Sherlock would do. Speaking of which was he back yet? He still had no text or call and was praying that as Lestrade and Mycroft had also left him alone Sherlock was ok. By the time he was ready to collapse he was greeted by a flustered looking Stamford.

"You alright John? I've been stood here for a few minutes and you haven't even recognised me." There was genuine concern in his voice.

"Oh sorry Mike, I was thinking I guess," It was a lousy reply and he knew Mike didn't believe it entirely.

"Shall we go to my office? I hear that you've got yourself injured." John nodded not trusting his voice. He tried to look confident and well but as he moved from his leaning position a flash of pain ripped through the sensory nerves and he almost fell backwards. He was confused momentarily. He'd experienced that kind of pain only once and that was when a bullet had tore it's way ruthlessly through skin, muscle, nerves and bone. He shouldn't experience this from a small scratch hardly visible. Looking ahead he saw that Stamford was walking to the end of the corridor apparently not noticing. Gritting his teeth he forced himself to move sharply to catch up with Stamford.

They entered the office a few floors above. It was accursedly quiet but for once he was far too occupied with real pain to recollect memorial one. Stamford gestured to the patients chair and he took it gratefully. Stamford busied himself with papers for a moment then moved to his chair.

"So what's the diagnosis then Doctor Watson?" It was undoubtedly a joke but the tone of the execution was anything but.

"I need some pain relief. Preferably a dose of morphine 2.2grams should suffice my needs."

Stamford's eyebrows rose. "Sounds serious John might I examine the wound?" This was both to be expected and an inconvenience. Looking guilty he lifted his coat and shirt to reveal the scratch. It was smaller now and hardly noticeable. He hurried to explain himself.

"I know it's hardly anything Mike and wouldn't appear to demand any morphine at all let alone a surgeons dosage but I've tried every other painkiller I can, nothing will take it away! It's constant with movement and spreads instantaneously. It's not poison I'm sure there are no other symptoms consisting with it and evidently it's not infected. I think it's plausible that constant impulses are being generated where the cut had struck…" He trailed off Stamford was still looking at the scratch with interest.

"Lay down over there let me examine the area."

He got up and did as he was told whilst Stamford put on the latex gloves and brought up John's medical file.

Stamford crossed over to him and applied pressure in several areas around the cut making him jump. Then he made a much closer visual study of the cut and checked the blood pressure and breathing levels.

"Hmmm. Ok you can get up again."

He did with some difficulty and moved back to the chair.

"The simple matter is I can't prescribe such a vast amount of an opiate without a full diagnostic reason. I'm sure you know that a scratch doesn't warrant this."

"Is there anything you can give me then?"

"The only thing I can give you is a larger does of the over the counter painkillers Ibruprofen or Nurofen."

"Stamford please…"

"It's more than my jobs worth to break the rules John, you would never do it so don't ask me to." The reply was firm and final. Whilst waiting for Stamford to run the prescription through the computer he contemplated Stamford's reaction. He had expected it from an unknown doctor particularly an upstart but not from an old friend and associate who he'd known for nearly twenty years. Stamford knew he wouldn't exaggerate and rarely went against his diagnosis so why was he now?

Taking the prescription he stood and thanked Stamford who gave him an almost disappointed gaze before leaving the hospital. As he did he spotted a familiar face, Lestrade who made his way over.

"Is Sherlock alright?" It was his first thought.

"I think so. Look this maybe awkward right now and I'm not judging you but I have to investigate and question you…"

"What for?"

"Class A drug over dosage."

Thank you to all of my reviewers.


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