John Watson looked down at the long form on the gurney. Really a close one he thought. Stupid git almost didn't make it. If it wasn't for that bobby who was willing to walk into a dodgy alley in the middle of the night because he thought he heard a noise – well, that would have been the end of it. It takes a really barmy one to mix their drugs like that.
Barmy though he might be, he certainly was a looker; like a bloody Botticelli angel with that pale, angular face and dark hair. Could use a wash John thought as he brushed the damp curls off the patient's forehead, but not the matted mess he would expect with a dosser. He lifted the limp arm and gently ran his thumb up and down the inside of the forearm and elbow. No sign of abscesses or infections. Not been a user long. Or perhaps just careful about his needles. In that case, maybe not so stupid then. John shifted the arm he was holding to examine the pale hand. Definitely not on the street, or at least not for long. In John's experience the homeless did not carry nail clippers.
And not destitute either. He caught a bit of the material of the patient's trousers between thumb and forefinger. A bit thin for this parky January weather, but clearly expensive. And, from the elegant cut, probably bespoke. John turned and examined the shirt that had been hurriedly cut off. The fabric gleamed with a soft, rich sheen. Clearly not down to his last fiver. Or at least had someone – a family maybe - who cared about him. And there he was, near as dead in an alley.
A harried "Dr. Watson, can you come please, we need you" from a nurse as she rushed by grabbed John's attention, making him realize he had been lingering over this case too long.
Too bad, he thought as he turned away to go to his next patient. It would be interesting to check in on the bloke tomorrow when he was conscious - just to see if he could get the story. But with being shipped out tomorrow he wouldn't be seeing this one again.
