It was John Watson's day off and he was cleaning the kitchen, a mundane task Sherlock Holmes would never consider doing, when his mobile went off. The callback number for the 999 page was the office of the surgical practice he'd recently joined.
"Dr. Watson, there's been a tornado, a nasty piece of work," the office manager informed him. "We're looking for physicians to ride the helicopters out. It's all a bit much for the medics on their own. Are you available?"
"On my way." He was already halfway down the stairs.
From the back of the cab, he texted Sherlock, "Duty calls, JW." Holmes would know better than to bother him now.
In no time at all, Watson was in a BK-117 hovering over the scene.
"Christ, Doc, you ever seen anything like it?" one of the medics breathed in awe.
"Afghanistan," was Watson's quiet reply which earned him surprised looks from the flight crew.
Once on the ground, his damaged shoulder would prevent him from joining in digging through the rubble, but he was more than capable of triaging and treating the victims. Or pronouncing them dead. Strange how the vicious wind had turned simple things into deadly objects.
The next time he had a quiet day at the surgery, this would remind him that medicine was never boring.