DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN/HAVE CREATED THESE CHARACTERS (C) SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE AND BBC FOR THE REST

Medically Speaking

It was a warm summery afternoon. A hazy glow seeped into the London flat, making John's eyes feel heavy with fatigue. It was almost completely silent… except for one, extremely bothersome detective. He glanced up from his paper for the fifth time, sighing.

"What is it now?" He asked, irritated. There was a sudden prick on his finger, and he yelped slightly. The prick mark swelled up with blood, turning puffy and red.

"Ow! What in bloody hell was THAT for?" Even more irked than earlier, John scowled unhappily, as he saw Sherlock swipe some of the blood from his finger.

"Well, I needed to get your attention so that I could draw your blood properly." The lanky young man justified, sitting himself down in front of his desk with a glint of triumph in his eyes.

"Sherlock, that was hardly conventional! You're supposed to warn me before you do anything like that to me!" John shot back angrily. Sherlock glanced up, surprised, feeling his desk shake with the register of the doctor's voice.

"I hardly knew that you would throw such a fit…" He muttered, turning back to focus on his minuscule chemical reactions in his Petri dishes.

"Why wouldn't I when you're using my blood for whatever bloody experiment you're conducting?" John threw his hands up in the air and turned on his heel sharply, licking his pricked pointer finger.

"But you're the only B positive I know!"

Silence.

"Oh come now, we both know that you're annoyed about something else." Sherlock called after him, still not taking his eyes away from the microscope.

"Shut up! I am not going to talk to you right now…" The shorter man grumbled, as he affixed a small, Disney Princesses' bandage on his wound.

Sherlock sighed at this. For a military doctor, John could be quite reluctant to make a minor sacrifice for science or medicine. Always complaining about one thing or another… Sherlock was actually a very meticulous and tidy character. Why John doubted him so was puzzling. Of course he would use sterilized needles and such. That was practical knowledge. Certain little health or safety precautions Sherlock could ignore or bypass at times, but he would only do that if the experiment was be done solely by himself. He would never put the dear doctor's health at risk… his own health was quite a different story.

It was actually quite ironical, Sherlock mused, tapping his silver pen on the table.

"Did you get the mail?"

What a dull question.

"No."

"Typical…" John muttered to himself, "Well, I'm off to the doctor's anyways, so I'll bring it up when I get back." He pulled a small, brown coat over his shoulders, and for some reason, felt Sherlock staring at his back. John uncomfortably turned around.

"Well, what is it now?" He replied to the blank expression on Sherlock's face, feeling a migraine approaching rapidly.

"Nothing… I'm just contemplating why a doctor, such as yourself, would need to visit another doctor for check-ups."

Oh, here we go again.

"I can't prescribe medicine to myself or keep a proper medical record for myself. It's not allowed because…" The military man tried to explain himself, but he paused, seeing it as pointless. All he really wanted was attention.

Sherlock pressed on, "Alright, but why not? I don't see the point in being this circumstantial. All these doctors needing separate doctors for themselves? Is it another one of those social standards I'm so unaccustomed to? I mean, really, it makes no sense?"

"Good grief, Sherlock! Thank you for questioning something so unnecessarily. You really are a great intellectual." John sarcastically commented, trying to slip down the flat's steps quickly while avoiding further conversation.

"You're right, John. Your uppity and cultured society must know so much more than me!" Sherlock called back, in an equally sarcastic tone, following the poor doctor. John stood at the bottom of the stairwell, staring up at the brilliant detective tiredly. The sun shone brightly behind the tall man's figure, and it almost made him look…"godly" was probably the proper word for it, but it just made John snicker, as he shot back,

"At least they know that the earth goes 'round the sun…!"

"I swear, if you bring that up again, you can say goodbye to that lovely sweater Sarah bought you recently." Sherlock threatened him in the darkest voice he could produce, his eyes flashing angrily under the shadows of his face.

John merely rolled his eyes, "Oh dear, please halt the immature antics."

"I could say the same for your sarcastic tones."

"Look, the government doesn't want me prescribing procaine and morphine or something like that because that's illegal." John rubbed his forehead. Why did he always end up engaging in these arguments and explanations? What good or reward came from it? He was just helping feed into Sherlock's relief from boredom. He was obviously aware of doctors, doctor appointments, drugs, and all of that, anyhow.

"Well, that would've been particularly helpful for my thinking and deductive skills during a difficult case."

"But I don't want to supply you with drugs either, Sherlock."

"But the fact is that you could…!" Sherlock insisted persistently.

"No, I'm done with this conversation! You're absolutely mental!" John replied, exasperated and running late for his check-up.

"You are incredibly uptight today."

"I. Have. A. Doctor's. Appointment."

"Yes, I'm not stupid, John." Sherlock muttered testily, "What's bothering you again?"

"Nothing. Shut up."

"Right. Of course. As always. Brilliant conclusion."

John ran out of the door of the complex, refusing to continue the conversation.

"Pick up some marijuana, John!" The detective yelled after the shorter man. He sighed and gave a surprised glance to his left when he heard Mrs. Hudson's faint, little gasp.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hudson! Nothing out of the ordinary." Sherlock tried to reassure the frightened old woman and convince her that there was no need to call the Scotland Yard on him…again…

"Oh, Sherlock! I do hope you haven't reverted to more drugs, now!" She complained doubtfully.

"No, no, Mrs. Hudson. It was merely a pointless argument. I was trying to get a dry point across to the stubborn doctor." The detective cleared his throat and adjusted his two-button coat. Mrs. Hudson still refused to believe Sherlock, and she scurried back into her own room, muttering something about Sherlock and his oddities in a tired tone. Sherlock slyly grinned and pulled a hand through his mussed hair.

"I rather prefer nicotine!" He clarified out loud, running back up the stairs into his flat, as he heard Mrs. Hudson gasp again, rather loudly this time.

"Oh, Sherlock! How does the poor doctor deal with you?"

AN: Hey, what's up, hello there. Since this is going to be a series of drabbles, I might as well warn you all that it will be incredibly random, will venture into made-up territories, and will have various types of situations. They will mostly be unrelated, but when some are, I'll tell you all.

I absolutely love BBC's depiction of Sherlock and John, and I really wanted to try out a drabblish type thing with them. I don't know how many I want to do, so if you could review and leave some random number along with it, I'd greatly appreciate it. I'll try to update frequently, since summer is upon us in the US.

Thanks so much, and I hope you enjoyed this little chapter and what will come in the future!

- TM

(PS: If any of you watch Doctor Who as well, OHMYGOSH, RIVER SONG'S IDENTITY. I'M SPAZZING.)