Day 4 of Drabble-A-Day and the word is Haze. In another life when John doesn't meet Sherlock until he's drugged by the divine Miss Adler. It ended up being rather long for a drabble but you can't really cut short the meeting of fictions most wonderful consulting boyfriends, can you?
Thank you to everyone who read/reviewed Formal too, I had no idea the concept would be so popular ;)
I don't own the Sherlock characters. Mr Moffat & Mr Gatiss make them their bitches.
Haze
Sherlock suddenly became aware of his own existence again from under heavy eyelids.
Pulse? Check.
Breathing? Check.
Stable blood pressure? Check.
Unidentifiable male voice in the room? Check.
Sherlock struggled to open his eyes to put a face to the voice but it proved harder than he thought. His head spun and his skin was prickly with heat. He was vaguely aware of the sweat beading along his collarbone.
"Take it easy chap." said the male voice again.
Sherlock squinted, desperately trying to focus on the watery figure in his line of vision. The man sounded far away but steadily his voice came closer. With one almighty blink, Sherlock's focus was back. The edges of his vision were still in a slight haze but for the most part he was stable again. He looked at the owner of the voice.
Male, late thirties, Doctor (obviously), single (but entertains a string of dead end relationships), worked abroad but home now, his stance suggests an old leg injury, possible PTSD judging by the slight tremor in his writing hand, blue eyes and blonde hair, good upper body strength, strong shoulders… Interesting.
"Why am I in a hospital?" Sherlock blurted after frowning at the Doctor for a long thirty seconds.
"You're recovering from being drugged with a rare cocktail of medicines by a dominatrix who you saved from being shot by two Americans, at least that's what your DI told me to tell you." Smiled the sandy haired Doctor whilst he checked various monitors and took down handwritten notes.
"I see… My DI? I don't work for that insufferable policeman! I need to go, I have work to do." Sherlock babbled, trying to struggle his way out of the bed and consequently his hospital gown.
"Oh n-n-n-no. You're in overnight for observation. We haven't identified all the substances you were given yet. You could walk out of here and drop dead across the road and that's not helpful for anyone!" The friendly doctor finished his checks and resumed his position at the foot of the bed.
"I could be mistaken but I think British Medical Law allows me to discharge myself at any time, does it not?" stated Sherlock with one cocked eyebrow.
"It does, but where else would you get such wonderful food? I'll be back later to check on you." The Doctor grinned as he held the door open for a nurse carrying a tray of hospital food.
Sherlock gave a low growl and slung his legs back into the bed, totally dismissing the food that had been placed before him. If he was going to be stuck in here, at least he had his… phone. Where was his phone? As if on cue, he felt a vibration against his right buttock. Apparently it was in his bed. He reached down to retrieve it and read the text from Mycroft.
Dr John Watson is the best there is. I made sure he was assigned to you. Stay in overnight & do everything he says. He'll make it all better… MH.
Sherlock tutted into the thin air and punched back a sarcastic reply before setting to work deducing every nurse, Doctor and patient that walked past his room.
After not remembering he'd fallen to sleep, Sherlock awoke to find Dr Watson sitting in the armchair beside his bed. The hospital was in darkness and only the odd set of footsteps could be heard passing by in the corridor outside.
"What are you?" John Watson asked, resting his chin in his hand.
"A Consulting Detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job." Sherlock said with his look of vague annoyance.
"You're going to have to elaborate."
Sherlock looked at John exasperatingly. Why were people so stupid?
"Do you know how many crimes are left unsolved each year, Dr Watson?"
John shook his head.
"There are four point five million in the UK alone. That's a lot of incompetent police officers. I make it my job to go and hold their hands as they stumble blindly through the evidence. In effect, when they're out of their depth, they consult me."
The doctor chuckled quietly behind his hand. Clearly he disbelieved everything Sherlock had just said.
"So you're like a private eye or something then? Because the police don't normally consult amateurs." John shrugged.
"If I was an amateur do you think I would have been inside the home of a dominatrix obtaining a camera phone containing sordid images of a young Royal whilst dodging stray bullets from two trigger happy American CIA agents?" Sherlock said matter-of-factly.
John just stared at the rare, exotic creature before him that had stumbled into his department a few hours ago, unable to string coherent sentences together and being carried by a gaggle of amused policemen.
"Um, well…"
"Exactly." Sherlock huffed.
"Anyway, what about you? How come you're back here now after Afghanistan? I would say it's due to your injury but that's likely to be psychosomatic due to the fact your compensating stance differs so regularly, so was it due to post traumatic stress disorder because the intermittent tremble in your right hand suggests it might be?"
Sherlock folded his arms triumphantly over his puffed-out chest as he saw the dumbfounded look creep across Dr Watsons face.
"How did you…?" Dr Watsons jaw was agape with confusion. How could this complete stranger know all of this about him?
"You see, would an amateur be able to take one look at you and deduce your entire life history? Of course he wouldn't because the police don't consult amateurs. I observe, Dr Watson. It's my job to observe everyone and everything. Now tell me about the war."
As the night progressed the pair learned about each other in ways no strangers normally would. Sherlock shared stories of some of the more death-defying cases he'd solved and John told stories of all the bullets he'd dodged and comrades he'd mourned. The sun had set on two strangers and the sun rose on two acquaintances.
John stretched his neck from left to right, a night sitting in an arm chair hadn't done his weary body any good. He was supposed to have clocked off ten hours ago but here he was, waking up next to the bed of the most fascinating man he'd ever met.
Sherlock stirred and wearily opened his eyes. He smiled fondly at the Doctor who was stretching and yawning whilst looking over the hospital courtyard out of the window.
"You can sign those discharge papers when you're ready Dr Watson." Sherlock yawned.
"Already done and please, call me John." John returned to Sherlock's bedside and offered his hand to the Detective. They shared a brief, firm handshake before John nodded and left the room so Sherlock could get ready to leave.
John tried to make sense of everything he'd heard from Sherlock Holmes the previous evening on his way to the staff room and decided that it was all just crazy enough to be true. He shrugged out of his white coat and threw it, along with his stethoscope, into his locker before collecting his belongings and heading for home. As he exited the hospital and the first rays of sun were melting onto his face, his phone bleeped in his jacket pocket. He removed it to find a text message from a number he didn't recognise. Frowning, he read it.
As I said during our conversation last night, I do not have friends and I will stand by that until my dying breath. However, you're a doctor and I need one of those. 221B Baker St, I could use your expert eye on some case files. SH.
John laughed but before he could decide for himself, he saw a cab pull up at the kerb before him. Sherlock Holmes threw open the door and waited as Doctor John Watson climbed inside. The Detective and the Doctor were bound for Baker Street.