Sherlock sat in the office waiting room, bored to death and mindlessly listening to the telly, which was reporting some trivial murder case in Florida. He wouldn't be at the doctor's at all, but he had accidentally his foot while testing a murder weapon in the last case he had worked on, and he couldn't take a step without searing pain now.
He glanced at the clock on the wall again. Ridiculous that someone could keep him waiting so long. He was tempted to just keep walking on the foot, but then he thought better. He had already put up with it for long enough. Why were appointments made if the doctors couldn't keep them. He let out a frustrated huff.
The woman sitting across from him sat forward, watching the ongoing report on the screen with wide eyes, and her hand nervously moving across her mouth.
Suddenly curious, Sherlock observed a few more seconds, his eyes flitting back and forth between the reporter on the screen and the woman observing.
"You know something about this, don't you?" He abruptly asked.
She looked up, surprised that he was making conversation. Her eyes filled with fear, and she looked toward the door that patients walked though toward the exam rooms. She quickly shook her head.
"No, of course not. It's just an awful thing is all. Poor woman."
She was lying. He could tell that for sure. He quickly thought through the specifics of the case on the telly. A young woman in Florida murdered. Typical spring break stupidity, he had thought. Young girl gets drunk, stays out too late and gets into trouble. Happened all the time with these Americans. How could this woman in London be so affected by it?
He glanced over the woman sitting across from him. He guessed her to be about 27 or 28. She was in good shape, and pretty, though not extraordinarily. Her makeup and clothing told that she put a lot of effort into looking attractive. She wore an expensive engagement and wedding ring set, though the way she held her hand said that she was uncomfortable with the largeness of the rock. She had not picked it out herself, and her husband was obviously more interested in showing off his wealth than caring what his fiance, now wife, thought about the style. Unavoidable from his notice, was a fading bruise across her left cheek bone, and dark, fresher bruises about her right wrist. She continually pulled her jacket down to cover her wrist, but the sleeve was slightly too short to do a proper job at this.
Before he could make any more deductions about her, the door opened and a nurse appeared, holding the door for the exiting patient.
"We'll see you in a couple weeks, Mr. Hudson. Take care of that hand now."
The patient, a man in his mid-to-late thirties, and well dressed, stepped out, his hand wrapped in a cast.
He looked between Sherlock and the woman, giving her an angry glare.
"Alright, Martha, let's get out of here." She stood, but he grabbed her harshly by the elbow and guided her out with his good hand.
"Mr. Holmes?" the nurse glanced from her clipboard to Sherlock.
"Sorry, I think I'll have to reschedule." Sherlock said. With that, he put on his coat and followed the couple back out onto the street.