A/N: Dedicated to all those who inspired this charade.
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine. I don't own or profit.
"Dr. Watson, John" - or so the name badge claimed. He wasn't so sure if he deserved the title.
~221b~
"Bad day at work?" Sherlock remarked without looking up from microscope.
"Bit of an understatement," John muttered to himself as he removed his coat, "doesn't take the world's greatest consulting detective to figure that out."
The lanky detective rolled his shoulders and readjusted the focus on his lens. "While you're brewing your tea, add a second for me, John."
"What makes you think I was going to make tea right now? It's been a very long day at the surgery and I'm tired."
"Clearly a cup of tea would do your temper a positive turn right now. I merely ask that you double the quantity." Sherlock looked over at his flatmate expectantly.
"Did it ever cross that genius mind of yours that I might like to sit down, put my feet up, and relax while you make me a cup?"
"Impractical." The dark-haired man assured John. "You are already standing and positioned favourably for brewing tea. Energy efficiency dictates that you are the one best situated for the task."
"Never mind." John grumbled. "Too complicated to explain now." He sighed and trudged past Sherlock toward his bedroom. He hesitated. A piece of him yearned for the comfort of a soothing cup of tea and comforting company. He looked back at his flatmate who was already lost in his research, solving the next sensational criminal case of intergalactic proportion. He continued up the steps. Perhaps a shower would help.
~221b~
The hot water cascading over his body failed to wash away the troubled thoughts that smouldered portentously in the doctor's head. How could Sherlock understand? Doctors had bad days.
Today was one of those bad days. He was tired. He was lonely. He couldn't shake the slithering shadow of doubt that hissed in his ear. He might diagnose but he couldn't change the outcome. What was the use? He'd donned the coat, hid behind the glasses and degree, and offered comforting platitudes of hope and reassurance to the family. All the while he knew the child was dying.
~221b~
It was his patient's exquisite pale blue eyes with long eyelashes that had captured his attention initially. They were intelligent and sober beyond his four years of age. They probed his professional façade relentlessly each time he visited for answers - and a future.
"Can I go back to school?" The question, asked with the innocent hope of a young child, never failed to be forthcoming at the end of the visit.
"Not today, Matthew. Maybe tomorrow." The boy nodded and smiled bravely. John felt terrible. Not today, not tomorrow, likely not ever.
"See you tomorrow," he called back to Matthew.
"Ok, doc," the boy replied.
"How's he doing?" Matthew's mother, tired and hollow, asked. Matthew's father remained silent, uncomfortable with the emotional turmoil around him.
John adjusted his glasses and shuffled through the paperwork – dismal reports from the specialists and scads of lab work. He scratched his ear and adjusted his face. "Well – things could be better… in medicine not everything is cut and dried. We'd hoped for a more positive response.
How is he? Nothing is working. Every report and every test are bad. His cell counts were so grossly abnormal he could haemorrhage from a pin hole. He wasn't getting better at all! He was dying. And, bloody hell, there was nothing Dr John Watson could do about it!
Matthew's mum searched their doctor's face for a glimmer of hope. "He might turn around then?" She grasped at any straw however flimsy and futile. John gave an encouraging halfway smile.
"One can never know for sure in these cases."
One can never be 100% sure but one can be 99.9999% sure that he's going to die.
"We will certainly hope for the best although we can't ignore the chance that he might not get better." It was a speech he'd used before. Almost invariably with those preparing for death.
Hope. What was the point? The truth. The damn truth was that their son was going to die. There wasn't going to be a magic cure. He kept such thoughts to himself. The Professional façade remained undisturbed.
~221b~
"Can I to school tomorrow?"
The boy did not say 'today'. He said 'tomorrow'. His question changed. John's heart skipped. The kid knew. In spite of his hedged hopeful words the boy could feel it in his soul. In the face of death he kept up his spirits. Tomorrow. The day of eternal hope.
"Yes, maybe tomorrow you'll go to school", John went along with his small patient's wishes.
"Bye, doctor."
Goodbye, Matthew, see you tomorrow." John plastered on his cheerful smile and waved.
Matthew traced the white coattails of the doctor as they vanished out of sight and sighed. A big, grown up sigh. His mum fussed over him for a few minutes and settled him under the duvet again. The next day Matthew returned to school – a different school in another world though. Blue eyes faded to black.
" I'm sorry." He sat with the bereaved parents. "I know it's not easy. It never is. We did everything possible."
Everything? Was there something he'd missed? Had he followed the correct steps? Should he have pushed for a more aggressive experimental treatment? What if… doubts shivered behind his eyes. Did he deserve the title and the trust his clients put in him or was it all a complex charade? A masquerade? A convincing performance where he knew his lines by heart. Sympathetic smiles and hopeful words to mollify the cruel facts. And only when the curtains closed and the audiences had left, only when he was alone could he finally fall apart.
John climbed out the shower and towelled away the pain that flooded his face. Stripped of all pretences, alone in the bath, he felt drained, naked, and ashamed. F*ing useless stupid doctor! The events of the day glared at him accusingly. Imposter, they snarled.
He knew it would be easier to fight such thoughts when he had enough sleep and wasn't under so much stress. Professionally, he understood the motto: to cure sometimes, treat often, comfort always (Hippocrates). Tonight though, he didn't feel like comforting. He didn't feel like treating either. And, as for curing, it felt like a big sham – a charade for fools – right now.
He crawled into bed, alone with his thoughts. He thought about Sherlock. Would his genius flatmate understand? No. He dismissed the wish quickly. What the hell would Sherlock know about feeling like a fake?
~221b~
So I tuck it all away, like everything's okay
If I make them all believe it, maybe I'll believe it too
So with a painted grin, I play the part again
So everyone will see me the way that I see them.
- "Stained Glass Masquerade" by Casting Crowns