A/N: Wrote it a few years ago as a joke when I was writing another fic (yeah, iatrophobia turned out to be quite the literary device, LOL) and now found it again. I'm pretty sure actual iatrophobia looks a bit differently, but what the hell.
Disclaimer: Characters not mine. No profit made.
Iatrophobia
We were on a train, heading towards London, after yet another successfully concluded investigation. Holmes's interest was focussed on his newspaper, while I held a conversation with the only other occupant of the compartment, besides Holmes and myself, a pleasant lady of about forty. Our discussion somehow turned to India, I mentioned Bombay and my army days and the lady inquired if I was a soldier.
"Assistant Surgeon, attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers," was my reply.
"A doctor!" She suddenly paled, took a few quick breaths and appeared ready to faint.
"Are you all right, Madam?" I tried to remember if I had packed some smelling salts, but she was already making a hurried exit and promptly disappeared down the corridor.
Puzzled, I turned to Holmes.
"Iatrophobia, I would say. Interesting," he murmured.
"What?"
"Fear of going to the doctor. Or of doctors," Holmes continued. "Note that she exhibited acute symptoms of panic when you spoke of your profession."
"Yes, I know what iatrophobia is, but surely, you can't be serious." I looked doubtfully at the door of our compartment the lady left opened in her haste. "Well... perhaps there might be something in it," I conceded.
"Mhm." Holmes locked the door and sat beside me, close enough for our thighs to touch. There was a distinct spark of mischief in his eyes as his arms slid around my waist.
"Holmes?"
"I don't think I have ever told you, Watson, but since we met I seem to have developed a severe case of iatrophilia." And he bent to kiss me.