Author's Note: The medicine in this story may not be accurate, since I'm not a medical professional. Also, this is a post-Reichenbach story, in which John still believes Sherlock to be dead.

When the patient started glowing, Doctor John Watson accepted it with cold-blooded resignation. The patient in question was a thick-set man, seemingly in his late twenties, who had arrived to the A&E at five in the morning stinking of pot, wearing a winter coat over sweatpants. He introduced himself as Stevie Mason, complained loudly and frantically about sudden stomach pains and about being bitten by an oversized purple bat, and then he promptly passed out. John first thought he was dealing with another quite run-of-the-mill bad trip, and resigned to drag the man into a hospital bed to sleep it off after a cursory examination. He had to a re-evaluate this opinion when the man's entire body convulsed, collapsed to the floor, and greenish, rapidly moving flickers of light appeared underneath the exposed skin of his face and forearms.

John tried to weigh his options. It wasn't out of the question that he was hallucinating. He had been working in the A&E of Northwick Park Hospital for more than one year, and he took far too many nightshifts to be healthy, or strictly speaking legal. Even before the persistent sleep deprivation, his therapist kept questioning his mental state, which he found ridiculous at the time. The first few months were difficult after… after what happened at Barts, but now he was coping. He was still a good doctor, he could still keep his cool in crises, and he could almost say he enjoyed his work in the A&E, saving a life every two weeks and bandaging the self-inflicted bruises of drunk teenagers the rest of the time. He moved into a new flat, quite small and far from Central London, but at least his own, and at least very far from Baker street. He lost contact with most of the people he know through the police force, but he still had a beer with Stamford when he could spare the time. And he had something strictly non-alcoholic with Harry far more often than he used to. If he had a psychological or neurological problem that caused him to hallucinate, this was the first time it manifested, and he would need to consult a professional immediately. Or immediately after figuring out what was wrong with the patient. He couldn't write him off as merely stoned if he couldn't trust his own senses, and on the off chance the man really was emitting green light, he had absolutely no idea how to treat it.

This thought process only took one long moment, and at the end of it John was certain that he needed to find someone to have a second look at the glowing man, at least to make sure if he was, in fact, glowing. At this time of night, the A&E was almost empty, there was no one in the waiting area. But John knew there always were a few nurses around, and at least one other doctor, so he grabbed his cane, hurried over to the adjacent examination room and wrenched the door open without knocking. Luckily there was no patient in the room, only Doctor Jones.

John had had not talked to Doctor Jones more than five times, and even then they didn't get past a few pleasantries exchanged while waiting for the elevator. He didn't know much about her. He knew she started working for the hospital two months before. He knew she was the subject of a tremendous amount of gossip, and that some people said she had worked as a medical consultant for some shady American corporation. He knew she was married, or at least that she wore a golden band on the ring finger of her left hand. He also knew that she was staggeringly, unfairly gorgeous. All these would have been enough to put him ill at ease around her, but there was something else that caught his eye, something more important. He was not – he was not perfect at deduction, he could never hope to be, and he knew that three-quarters of available information just passed him by, but he always knew a fellow soldier when he saw one. And the way Doctor Jones carried herself, the appraising way she looked at rooms and people, the way she tied her braids back with a bandana, even the way she laughed, they all screamed soldier, despite the fact that there was no record of army involvement anywhere in her official record. John's opinion wasn't changed by the fact that at the moment she was sitting cross-legged on a bed, reading the collected Sonnets of Shakespeare with a small smirk on her face.

'I need you to have a look at this.' Blurted out John instead of 'hello', and Doctor Jones must have noticed the urgency in his voice, because she immediately dropped her book and followed him out of the room. He was desperately hoping that by the time they got back, the man would not be glowing. He had to be disappointed. Although the patient had stopped emitting green light, he was hovering in the air about two feet from the floor, gently revolving around a horizontal axis. He could expect two reactions from Doctor Jones: either the entire thing was a hallucination, and she would be puzzled, verging on annoyed at being bothered for nothing, or the man was genuinely producing inexplicable symptoms, in which case she was likely to freak out and run from the room like he had.

'Did he glow?' she snapped instead, stepping into the room and starting to unbutton the patient's coat. 'I know it sounds strange, but you need to tell me if he did. Also, were there any bite marks?'

'He did.' Answered John, practicality overcoming shock. He knelt by the patient's side, and tore off his dirty green-and-white striped scarf. 'Two minor puncture wounds on the right side of the neck, near but not touching the carotid artery.'

Doctor Jones turned the man's head aside to have a better look at the marks, and swore.

'These are at least three hours old.' She said. 'We're going to have to be quick.'

'Excuse me' added John, because it's been more than a year since he felt this out of the loop. 'What do you know about what's going on?'

'I've seen these symptoms before.' She answered grimly. 'This is a parasitic infection, potentially lethal. Not contagious at this stage, but if we let it continue, the entire hospital will be gone in week, maybe the entirety of London too, I'm not sure.'

She took a deep breath, seemingly composed herself, and when she spoke again, John had no doubts left that she had been a soldier.

'I can fix this, but it's a two-man job. Doctor Watson?'

'What do I do?'

'Check his vitals. Keep him alive. And get his clothes off.'

John did as he was told, stripping the patient down to his boxers and running a quick diagnostic. The patient's heart rate and blood pressure were somewhat lower than normal. He had no difficulty breathing, however he appeared to have soiled himself – but maybe that was just a side effect of the levitation. While John examined the patient, or at least tried to stop him from turning round and round in mid-air, Doctor Jones left the room. She returned a few seconds later with a portable ultrasound machine from god-knows-where.

'Hold him still.' She barked, and examined the patient's abdomen as John held him by the arms. She made a worried sound, and moved up, towards the ribcage.

'They're in the lungs already.' She said. 'That means only way to remove them without permanently damaging the body is to inject large amounts of glucose into the bloodstream.'

She stood up, grabbed an ampule from a drawer, and administered the injection. For a few seconds nothing happened, apart from the patient making another slow turn around himself. Then John heart a strange, quiet skritching noise from the patient's abdominal cavity. It almost sounded like laughter. He raised a questioning eyebrow towards Doctor Jones.

'It won't work.' She said. 'They've weakened the circulatory system so much, it won't distribute the glucose as fast as we need it to.'

She heaved a deep sigh, jumped to her feet.

'Reinfection could happen any moment, we need to quarantine this building.'

'What if we raise the heart rate with norepinephrine?' asked John, allowing the patient to make another half-turn. 'Triggers the fight-or-flight response, raises heart rate and blood pressure as well releasing additional stored glucose, and we have lots of it for allergic reactions.'

'Brilliant, get the 0.3 milligram ampules.'

John sprang up, grabbed the syringes from the cupboard, and returned. He couldn't help but glance at the ultrasound machine's monitor above Doctor Jones' shoulder: the creatures in the lung were visible to the naked eye, and had more legs than anything he had ever seen.

'Inject the first syringe.' She said tensely. 'Straight into the femoral artery.' John did so, and the patient reacted by startling, gasping, the heart rate skyrocketing– the natural reaction to adrenaline.

'Now another one.' The next injection sent the heartbeat into downright dangerous territories, but that wasn't the most alarming symptom. Something was moving, in short skittering, scurrying bursts, underneath the patient's skin, under his chest and his neck.

'We'll need one more.' She said resolutely, not looking away from the monitor.

'That's well over the normal dose.' He argued. 'It could induce tachycardia!'

'We can fix that. Inject this one into the carotid artery.'

John whispered a silent apology to his Hippocratic oath, and pushed the syringe into the patient's neck. The next few seconds were confusing, to say the least. The man stopped levitating, and abruptly hit the floor. He was shaking so hard his outlines were blurred, and his naked skin seemed to emit a faint glow. Then he rose to his feet with unnaturally fast, jerking movements, while he still appeared to be unconscious – he gave the impression of a puppet on strings.

'Stand back!' ordered Doctor Jones, dragging John with her by the collar of his lab coat. He wanted to ask what was going on, but he fell silent when the patient inhaled with a rattling sound, puffing his chest out, then his mouth opened huge, and he gave a silent scream. A neon green jet of light emerged from his lungs, and on it were carried small, transparent, shrimp-like creatures. Then the man collapsed on the floor and started throwing up.

Doctor Jones nodded towards the patient, and John immediately limped over to help him. He checked the pulse, rapid but not dangerously so, then he held the man upright as he retched up what seemed like at least three portions of gyros, some breakfast cereal, and a whole lot of bile. Looking up, John saw that his colleague had grabbed a bottle of antiseptic (alcohol content 62%), threw the liquid at the floating cloud of light and crustaceans, and taking a lighter from her coat pocket, set the entire thing on fire. The light, the heat and the strange, shrill sound accompanying the conflagration didn't last longer than a single second, and then the entire thing was gone without the trace. The patient was still on all fours, and he was still shaking terribly, but he had stopped vomiting, and was looking around with fearful confusion in his eyes. All in all, he was looking surprisingly well for someone who had just been administered a near-lethal dose of norepinephrine.

'You've had an intense allergic reaction.' John said, because it was the first thing that came to mind. 'Don't try to stand up, just breathe. The palpitations will stop in a few minutes.'

'I… I felt… 'stuttered the man helplessly, his right hand scrabbling undecidedly at his chest.

'You may have experienced hallucinations.' Added Doctor Jones. 'It is a unusual side effect, but not by any means impossible.'

The patient's nauseated expression turned to one of embarrassed misery at the realisation that he was almost-naked and covered in his own various bodily fluids in front of an attractive woman.

'What am I allergic to?' he asked.

'We cannot be exactly sure.' She lied with the ease of someone who is doing it for a living. 'I suggest you are kept in for observation for at least one day, and I'll send word that you need a full blood test for all allergies, especially airborne irritants.'

John watched numbly as Doctor Jones administered Diazepam to the patient to steady the heart rate, called a nurse, instructed her to take the man away for a bath and then put him to bed. The man turned back in his hospital wheelchair to wave tentatively at Doctor Jones, and then he was gone. The door closed behind them, and there was a long moment of silence.

'Where exactly did you see these symptoms before?' asked John.

'Borneo.' She answered, and although he was almost entirely sure she was not telling the truth, he didn't feel like arguing. So he said nothing. Early-morning light was seeping in through the curtains, and glancing at his watch, he realised it was already six o'clock in the morning. Their shift at the clinic was over, and they could go home.

At that moment there were three energetic knocks at the door, so John opened it to let the next shift in. It was Dr Morstan, storming in at her usual breakneck speed, already wearing her lab coat, but her very unprofessional-looking peroxide-blond hair was all over the place. She jingled when he awkwardly shook her outstretched hand – she was covered in cheap metal bracelets from wrists to elbows.

'Another drunk?' she asked with a chipper grin, surveying the vomit on the floor, on John's lab coat, and the singed left sleeve of Dr Jones.

John murmured something vague about an allergic reaction, and made an attempt to apologise for the mess, which she laughed off.

'Get the hell out of here, you both look like hell warmed over.' She physically pushed John out the door, and treated Doctor Jones to an expression like a puppy dog trying to glower, until she left too.

'I don't get how she can be this cheerful at this time of day.' Grumbled John, mostly out of habit.

'She's actually competent, she just doesn't act like it.' Argued Doctor Jones absently. 'Coffee?'

'What?' startled John.

'I need a cup of coffee to be able to get home, and so do you.'

John nodded, and they companionably walked off towards the mostly-empty cafeteria. John limped over to the machine, made two double-espressos almost on auto-pilot, handed one of the cups to Doctor Jones and sat down opposite her at the little table.

'So what were you doing in Borneo?' he asked after a sip.

'Travelling.' She answered. He frowned at her non-answer, so continued. 'Back in med school, just before finishing, I took a break, and I travelled. I had this friend who was really talented at finding the strangest, freakiest, most wonderful places in the world.'

'A boyfriend?' asked John, and then immediately regretted his lack of tact.

'No. Just a friend.' She said, and her smile spoke of nostalgia, but no sadness.

Both of them sipped their coffee silently. Doctor Jones suddenly put her cup down and stuck out her hand.

'Martha.' She said.

'What?'

'My full name's Martha Jones, I thought we should go by first names since we saved a man's life together.'

'Oh. I'm John, John Watson.' said he, and shook her outstretched hand. He didn't expect her expression of delighted surprise, or for her hand to go slack in his.

'I'm sorry' she said apprehensively, 'but are you that John Watson? The one with the blog?'

John's heart sank, like it did every time people figured out he was the same John Watson as the man behind the now defunct blog detailing the deductions and adventures of Sherlock Holmes, proven fraud and serial killer. This was almost always followed by incessant questioning, and by the end of the increasingly uncomfortable conversation, people came to one of two conclusions: that John was some creepy discipline of a serial killer, or worse, that he was a poor, brain-washed victim of one.

'I am.' He answered finally, trying to will her into changing the subject.

'I'm sorry for mentioning it, I should have realised it is a difficult topic.' – she said. 'I just wanted to tell you that I really enjoyed reading it.'

John couldn't believe his ears.

'You can't tell me you seriously think-'

'That everything you wrote is true?' she asked. 'I'm afraid I do think that.'

'Thanks.' Said John melancholically. 'Few people do. I even considered taking the blog down, but I didn't have the heart.'

'Please don't.' she said, with surprising vehemence. 'It's important that people know the truth.'

'The truth?' asked John bitterly. 'A fat lot of good that did to me. I tell them the truth, so they either think I was too stupid to notice what he was doing, or that I was in on it too.'

'I still think people should know what kind of person he really is- was.' continued Martha. 'Even if it's a great burden on you.'

She took a long sip from her coffee, but seeing John's sceptical expression, she slowly, haltingly started talking again.

'Once, when I was travelling with my friend, we got into trouble.' She said. 'Well, we often got into trouble, that was sort of the point, but once it got… it got really bad. My friend was captured. Detained. Unlawfully, of course. And I… I had no real way of getting him out. I had to run.'

She was staring into her coffee mug, swirling the contents on its bottom.

'While I was on the run, I started talking about him.' She continued. 'I told stories about him to the people I met, to the people who helped me, who hid me. You see, my friend was… a philanthropist. A humanitarian, you could say. He did lots of good for people, he did a lot to protect them. They didn't really know it before, not until I told them. And that made all the difference. People, many people, ended up on his side, and they helped me free him. That's why the truth is important.'

She fell silent, but John was still speechless. He had been right to think her military. She left out all the details from her story, and that in itself was telling: she had to be military intelligence, BlackOps, or at the very least some sort of infiltration-based police. And her friend was almost certainly a commanding officer.

'You are very brave.' He said finally. He knew this was an utterly inadequate compliment for a woman who apparently rescued a superior from high-security detainment by winning over locals and forming them into militias. It may have happened somewhere in the Middle East, or in some American crime syndicate, but it definitely happened.

'So are you.' She answered, with the same wan smile he saw when she was reading Shakespeare. 'You're doing the same thing I am, and I'm pretty sure you're a better writer.'

'Thank you, but that doesn't make it any easier.' He said, almost against his will. 'It's not that I miss him. Well, of course I miss him, but that's not the worst. The worst is that I still have no idea why he did it. And I don't know, I keep thinking maybe if only I understood, I could have done something.'

Martha was looking straight at him, and instead of embarrassment or concern, he saw understanding in her eyes. The next thing he said was something he never talked about to anyone, and rarely admitted even to himself.

'I'm not sure I keep doing this.'

Martha put her mug down, and took a deep breath.

'Listen.' She said carefully. 'I'm not trying to fix your life here, because I know I don't understand it. But I'd really like you to keep going. We just saved a man's life, and prevented a parasitic plague in London, and I couldn't have done it without you. So believe me – '

Suddenly her phone started ringing, and the moment was broken. She nodded a brief apology towards John, and snatched the cell phone from her jacket pocket.

'Jones.' She barked, holding it to her ear, and John couldn't help noticing that she sounded more soldier-like again.

'In Great Yarmouth? How many?' she asked tensely.

After a moment, she spoke again.

'Can you negotiate with them?' The answer must have been negative, because she spat a swearword into the phone.

'You got the flamethrower?' she continued. Then she smiled.

'I love you. I'm there in eighty minutes.'

She hung up the phone with a beep, and shrugged embarrassedly towards John.

'That was Mickey, my husband.'

'What did you say he did?' asked John, trying and failing to keep the suspicion out of his voice.

'He works with computers.' She said without batting an eyelid. 'But he ran into a bit of trouble out in Norfolk, so I gotta go.'

She was already standing, taking off her lab coat and putting on her purple shawl, and John couldn't figure out what to say to her.

'Goodbye, Doctor Watson.' She said, giving him a brief but warm handshake. 'It's been a pleasure working with you, but please inform the hospital administration that I won't be back. Also, keep an eye on our patient, just in case.'

She was starting to go, and already halfway through the room, when she turned back.

'It's January, right?' she asked, and he would have laughed if she didn't seem genuinely confused.

'Yeah.' He answered. In a bout of helpfulness, he added '3rd of January, 2014.'

' January 3rd, 2014.' She repeated, and seemed to hesitate for a long moment, almost as if she was quickly trying to calculate something.

'I'm asking you to hold on for just three more weeks.' She yelled across the room. 'It's going to get better after that, I promise. And thanks for the coffee!'

'Three weeks.' John mused. 'Why three? Do psychologists reckon it's some sort of a turning point? Because let me tell you, I'd bet you a hundred quid that nothing will happen to me in three weeks.'

But Martha was already gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

THE END