A/N: Please note that this story contains some brief swearing and some description of human dissection. I don't believe it's very gory/detailed but then I am probably a little desensitized. If you might have a problem with the issue of human dissection, perhaps this one is not for you.
This is really a silly little story based on my own experiences studying Anatomy and particularly its practical side. I am not a medical doctor (thank the gods) but I have trained with student doctors and studied the subject at med level. Consequently, my trust in doctors has been destroyed forever. The more I work with them, the more terrifyingly incompetent they appear. The minor characters that feature in this fiction are loosely inspired by behaviours and traits I have seen in other people in the lab. Aside from this, they are original.
On the topic of donating one's body to science - people who do this leave incredible gifts for future generations. Although not all health science professionals train with cadavers, it is my opinion that those who do are better educated and more prepared and confident for future their careers. There is no way that a book can teach you as much as a practical session with a human body.
"I profess to learn and to teach anatomy not from books but from dissections, not from the tenets of Philosophers but from the fabric of Nature." – William Harvey
"Scalpel."
John paused, his pen jerking to a stop as it scrawled messily across his notebook. One hand balanced on Gray's, a finger resting on the line he had been copying. He slowly lifted his head to look at the student who bent over the cadaver that lay in his direct line of sight, a mere metre or so away from his own table. John's eyes took in the protective sheets which had been flung back to expose a towelled head and lower body. The towel that was supposed to hide the thorax was absent as a crown of curly black hair leant over the open and hollow cavity, hands buried deep inside somewhere. John's eyes flicked around the rest of the lab, spotting only a trio of students (younger than him), revising basic osteology together. Shaking his head, he sighed and looked back down at his text, trying in vain to remember where his thoughts had been before the interruption.
"A scalpel."
The voice rung out again, quiet but seeming too loud in the almost silent dissection room. John's head shot up for the second time, staring straight at the boy in front of him who was in the exact same position as before. He frowned in confusion, wincing as he knocked his pen to the floor by mistake.
"Excuse me?" asked John, his voice hardly louder than a whisper. A muffled snort came from the other student.
"Scalpel." The boy repeated, eyes still focused on his work and not on John. "The metal object with the sharp edge. Looks a bit like a knife."
"What about them?"
"There is a box of them sitting beside you. Give. Me. One."
"All you had to do is ask."
"I did," replied the stranger, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
John, feeling particularly aggressive thanks to the prospect of an upcoming quiz, 'accidentally' knocked the box of scalpels to the floor in the vague direction of the other boy.
His face, which John could see for the first time, filled with horror. "You just risked the contamination of those instruments."
"Try asking nicely next time," said John, plastering a mean smile onto his face. He slammed his textbooks shut and picked them up, pens and notes wedged between their many pages. He hopped off his stool and walked across the shiny grey floor, shoes squeaking loudly in the silence of the lab. He hesitated for a second by the box of instruments scattered on the floor. With a sigh, he bent down and scooped them up, placing the stray ones back into their holding place before placing the box on the furthest counter away from the other boy. He could feel the pair of eyes stuck on the back of his head as he stormed out of the room, open lab coat flapping dramatically behind him.
Three days later, John shoved his rucksack into a cubbyhole, picking a square at his exact height for easy access. As he opened the bag to pull out his lab coat, he heard a voice tut beside him.
"You stole my spot, Watson."
Grinning, John swung two fingers in the direction of the words. "Should have got here earlier so, Mike."
He turned around to look at his friend, casually pulling on his white coat as he took in the smiling expression before him. As usual, Mike's cheeks were red from the exertion of running up four flights of stairs to make it to the preparation area. John's eyes flicked to his own watch, noting that they were both three minutes late already.
"Am lucky to make it here at all, to be honest. Lost my ID and had to wait out on the street until some Physio firstie swiped the doors. The look on her face when she saw me following her, you'd think I was an axe murder or something."
John snorted. "Where's your coat, mate?"
He hadn't previously thought it was possible but somehow, Mike turned even redder. "Forgot it," he said, biting his lip. "Didn't realise until I was halfway here on the tube. D'you think they'll let me in without one? If I put on that plastic bag yoke?"
John's eyes drifted to the handwritten sign pinned to the top level of cubbyholes.
"NO COAT? NO CLASS!"
"I dunno, Mike. Maybe you should go ask Claire if she has a spare lying around?"
Mike nodded, puffing out a single loud breath. "Yeah I think I'll do that. Thanks, John."
He smiled again at his classmate, pulling his own coat closed and buttoning it up as he moved to the door of the lab. "No bother, mate," he said, using his ID to access the door. "See you in there."
John paused upon entering the dissection room, letting the heavy door swing closed behind him. His eyes squinted like they always did under the bright lights as he looked up and down the long room. He cursed silently when he saw his classmates, already divided into today's groups and each being led by a demonstrator. Scanning the groups quickly, he made the calculated decision to head for the only male, the ever popular Evan. Something about his crude humour contributed a lot to John's ability to remember the material he covered.
He rocked up to the group, not even trying to act subtle about his tardiness. Evan's eyes flitted to his once before they rolled and he continued lecturing about what he expected them to learn by the end of the two hour slot.
"Blood supply and the CNS, one of Dr Leahy's favourite exam questions." Evan stated, throwing and catching a brain model in his hand as he spoke. John's eyes couldn't help but watch it, willing him to drop it. He didn't. "Make sure you're able to recite it in your sleep 'cause if you can't, you may as well drop out. It's one of our easiest parts of Neuro.
"I'm not even going to ask you to look at the meninges, guys. It's in the handbook but really that shit's Week One. If you don't know your layers and CSF by now you should just leave. Get the sample spinal cord out and a few brains between you and start identifying blood vessels using Netter's. Ultimately, examiner's favourite thing to ask is about the Circle of Willis. McKenzie!" Evan snapped, looking over to one girl in particular who seemed to be dozing throughout his speech. "Tell us about the Circle of Willis."
The girl, who John thought was called Anna, blinked slowly. "Uh, we haven't covered that yet?"
Evan's eyes narrowed. "Didn't Nick do a whole lecture on it on Monday?"
Anna blinked again, this time a lot faster. "Uh-"
Evan threw his head back and sighed loudly. "Go to your fucking class in future. Watson, you were late. Same question, give me an answer!"
"Er, it's named after a guy called Willis?"
"Well, no shit. How'd you figure that one out?"
"It's blood supply to the brain, a network of arteries that form a circle on its base." said John, talking through the little he remembered from his most recent anatomy lecture. "It's a compensatory system, so like if one of the arteries got blocked another could still supply the brain?"
"Simple language but not bad, Watson. Now, everyone get out your materials and brains and start studying. I'll be back in twenty minutes to test you on what you've learned."
Evan hopped off his stool and strolled over to his colleague Mina, still tossing the fake brain in his hand. Shaking his head, John glanced back at the four other people in his group. The three girls were murmuring quietly between themselves and occasionally giggling in a way that was disconcerting to John. He turned instead to the only other boy, Steven, who he'd worked with twice before and was a self-proclaimed swot.
"Wanna get started?" John asked him, offering a hesitant smile.
The other boy nodded. "I'll go get a brain. Any preferences?"
"Uh, I don't think Brian's been dissected so that one might be good?"
Steven nodded and slouched away, returning a minute later with a white container in his hand. John glanced at the lid to see "BRIAN" scrawled across it in thick black letters. He grabbed a tray from the shelf below his knees and set it on the desk in front of him. With carefully steady hands, he took the container from Steven and placed it down beside the plastic tray.
"Gloves?" asked Steven, holding the box of them out in offering to John. He murmured his thanks and pulled out a pair, putting them on as quickly as he could manage. He then picked up the lab glasses Steven had left out for him and shoved them on before taking the lid off the container.
"I could never get used to how cool this is." muttered Steven from his left as John pulled the brain out of the container, cold formalin solution soaking his gloves. He held the brain upright for a moment, admiring it, before setting it down gently in the tray. He snatched the identification sheet before replacing the lid, and left it sitting just above the brain in the plastic.
"So," said John, turning to look at Steven. "Where d'you want to start?"
After half an hour of exploring the network of blood vessels crossing the brain and a five minute quiz from Evan, John noticed that he and Steven were no longer alone at their table. Standing directly in front of where they sat was the curly haired student who John not-so-fondly called Scalpel in his head. The boy's arms were folded and he stood in a way that screamed superiority complex to John. Now that he could see his face, John wondered how he could possibly be a student because despite his height, he looked younger than majority of this year's freshman. Said face looked greatly pissed off.
"Did you want something?" asked John, before he could stop himself. The other boy frowned. John suspected he was only a few seconds away from stamping his foot in childish tantrum.
"Yes. You have my brain. Give it to me."
John and Steven glanced at each other incredulously. "It says 'Brian' on the bucket, mate." said Steven, not lifting his index finger from where it rested on the basilar artery.
"No, but it is the highest calibre of brain that I always use and now I wish to use it. Give Brian to me."
John frowned, sharing another look with his classmate. "You're not even in this class."
"And your point is?"
"Students belonging to the class scheduled have priority over demonstrators and materials. You can use whatever you want during your class time, this is ours. We're not giving you anything."
John watched him carefully and noted the way his nostrils flared. He wondered absently if, behind the dodgy "transparent" plastic glasses, his eyes turned red or black or some other demonly colour.
"Fine." spat the boy, giving the pair one more evil look before he stormed off, probably to harass some poor other souls. John winced as he pictured him going after Lucy Jones, the most timid girl imaginable who would probably burst into tears when he looked at her.
"Well, that was weird," mused Steven, staring at the spot the boy had stood in.
"Yeah," agreed John, nodding. "Yeah, it was."
John did not see the boy for two whole weeks' worth of anatomy labs. After two brief but awkward encounters, it was a refreshing turn of events. It was so with bundles of confidence that John entered the Dissection Room on a Friday afternoon, hoping to get some study in before the week finished.
He stopped in the middle of the door way, wincing as the closing door slammed into his foot.
The boy walked down the centre of the lab, following on the heels of Dr Nick. John's ears picked up the stream of conversation leaving his mouth.
"– simply inane questions, kid, really just stop. Students like you really turn me off teaching, you know? I'm not a textbook. Go get Gray's and use it and stop harassing me. Or better yet – Watson!"
John froze. He looked up at his lecturer who was watching him expectantly. "Uh, yes, sir?"
"Your fellow student here needs help–"
"I don't need help," the student muttered darkly.
"and," continued Nick, ignoring the interruption, "you should help him, Watson. Research always indicates that students learn better from their peers after all."
That was all he said before he clapped his hands together and walked off, leaving John to stare at the other boy in disbelief. He was stared right back at and a thought bounced around his mind for a minute about killing looks.
"Er," said John, biting his lip and tightening his hold on the pen in his right hand. "So. What exactly is the problem?"
John drew his eyes away from the death glare and looked instead at the student's hands which lay by his side. They appeared to be repeating a pattern of clenching and releasing in a way that John doubted could possibly be relaxing. Nothing was said for several moments, making John consider ignoring the fact that he'd ever been put in this situation and simply walking away.
Until his nemesis let out high pitched whine that John really, really hadn't been expecting.
"I cannot identify the left recurrent laryngeal nerve in any of the bodies. I have dissected and looked in the correct manner and yet not one person in this bloody laboratory appears to have the structure."
John quirked an eyebrow. "Why is the recurrent so important to you?"
"Did you misunderstand me? I cannot find it. I have been able to identify all of the other structures of the neck except this one."
He looked so angry about this that John snorted in amusement, his mouth twisting into a small smile. "You know that most people give up when they can't find something right?"
"In case it wasn't obvious," started the boy, and John wasn't sure if he was imagining it or if his nose actually lifted higher in the air, "I'm not most people. I refuse to be beaten. My anatomical knowledge of the human body must be flawless, otherwise, what is the point?"
"Right," responded John after another minute of silence. It wasn't as if he'd never met perfectionists in the field of medicine before. In reality, they made up most of the med' population. "Well, come on then."
John turned around and led him over to Robin, the donor located at the very top of the room. He stopped as he reached the table, waiting for the other to catch up. When he did, he took a pair of gloves and tossed them at him before pulling on his own. He then grasped the protective sheet and uncovered the body, moving on to take the towels off the neck next. John glanced upwards quickly for any indication of disgust that often marked a surprising number of students' faces when the donors were exposed. He was happy (but not exactly surprised) that all that covered the first year's face was a look of curiosity.
"So," began John, choosing to continue looking at him rather than at Robin. "I'm not really surprised you had problems finding the left recurrent laryngeal. It's one of those things that cause people difficulty every year because of its course. You can never see it on all of the bodies, usually only a handful and I know it's kinda visible on Robin here 'cause I spotted it a few weeks ago. You shouldn't feel bad about needing help-"
"I don't."
"Right. Of course not. I was just going to say that I couldn't find any of them last year either but then I became friends with these two Speechies-"
"What?"
"Oh, the speech and language therapists. That's what they call themselves."
John's ears could just about pick up the faint murmur of "idiots".
"Anyway, yeah, they're really good at the info that's super relevant to them and you know, well, the larynx is like their thing. So they showed me exactly where to find the recurrent in last year's donors and I guess the lesson stuck with me."
"Fascinating."
"Anyway, you seem like that type of person who has all the theoretical stuff memorised. You know its course right? It's starts as Vagus, goes around the aortic arch, etc?"
"Obviously."
"Well when it's coming up from the arch, it travels in the groove between the oesophagus and the trachea. It keeps travelling up then before it kinda goes behind the thyroid and pierces the larynx through the thyrohyoid membrane. If you look at Robin here and look at the left junction between her oesoph and trach, you can see a thin structure just lying in the groove. It nearly doesn't look separate from them at all."
Using a tweezers, John moved forward and picked the nerve up on the flat metal surface, pulling gently enough make the nerve stand out but not hard enough to snap it. Holding the instrument steady, he watched as the other student leant his head closer to get a better look.
"You can't see much else about its course," said John, releasing the nerve and helping it to sit back where it was supposed to. "But you can see where it disappears." Twirling the tweezers between his fingers for safe-keeping, John pushed the halved sections of Robin's body back together, reforming the outer cartilage of the larynx. "If you look there, the thyroid's in the way a bit and the dissection's cut a bit close but you can see where it pierces the membrane. See there? It enters and it's lost to us. Even if we were to dissect the larynx out we'd probably lose it in the process."
John held the body in place for a few more minutes while the other boy looked at and felt the other structures in the neck. When his curiosity appeared satisfied, he let go of the donor slowly and gently, stretching his stiff fingers.
"Happy?"
"Partially."
"What did you say your name was?"
"I did not. Sherlock Holmes."
"John. John Watson."
Two hours later, John sat at the desk beside Robin's table, Netter's Atlas open but largely ignored in front of him. A brain sat beside the book in its own tray, dissected sagittally into its two hemispheres. John was supposed to be revising his gyri and sulci but is instead watching Sherlock, who dances around the donor exploring her abdomen.
"But why the army?" he asks, not bothering to look at John. John's eyes flicker to his hands which are in dire need of a new pair of gloves.
"Well why not? It's an interesting and satisfying career, don't you think?"
"If you like blood and gore."
John smiled widely. "Doesn't every doctor? Isn't there something that fucked up in our heads that we actually like this stuff rather than running from it? Sometimes I feel like I spend more time in here with the dead than I do with the living."
"I wouldn't know."
"Wouldn't know what? That's not like you, I thought you knew everything."
"What doctors are like."
"Well you're training to be one, Sherlock. You have as good idea as any of the rest of us."
Sherlock hummed but otherwise did not answer. John jolted his attention back to the brain and began naming the gyri again.
John does not see Sherlock again. After weeks of running into him and hating every moment of it, as soon as they become friends he disappears entirely. John was not sure whose schedule was to blame – his own, increasingly busy one allowed far fewer visits to the lab. It wasn't that he minded. John merely missed the whacky company that had made his study sessions a little more interesting.
It's a full three weeks after they became civil towards each other that John is summoned into Claire's office, directed there by an amused looking Evan. John swallowed a little nervously as he knocked on the door, his mind running through all of the things he could have possibly done to deserve a summons. The door opened quietly from inside and Claire stepped out, clapping a hand onto his shoulder as an attempt at a comforting gesture.
"Calm yourself, Watson, you're not at fault." she said with a nod, before walking off in the direction of some occupational therapy students, barking a warning. Steeling himself, John let out a deep breath and stepped into the office.
Inside, Dr Nick and an unknown man awaited him.
Nick ushered him in and forced him to sit in a chair opposite the cramped desk, all smiles and welcoming words. His behaviour was so alien that John couldn't help but raise his eyebrows. The unfamiliar man remained standing in the corner to Nick's left, dressed in what John guessed to be an expensive suit which was out of place in the lab's office.
"John," said Nick, showing all of his teeth in a wide smile. "Do you know why we called you in here today?"
"No idea." replied John honestly, twisting his hands in his lap. His eyes flickered from his lecturer to the suited man.
"You have been working with one of the other students recently, yes?"
"I often work with other students, Doctor Barry."
"Of course you do, John. I meant one in particular, a Sherlock Holmes?"
John could feel his own eyes narrowing automatically. "Yes I have. What about it?"
"It has come to our attention that Mr Holmes isn't one of our usual students."
"What do you mean?" asked John, frowning in confusion. He just about caught the knowing look Nick shared with the stranger.
"He means," began the other guy, his quiet voice somehow managing to fill the room, "that Sherlock Holmes is, in fact, not a student here at all."
It took a while for John to realise that his mouth had dropped open and he was gaping like an idiot. "What?"
"It would appear that Sherlock has been making use of the university's facilities to further his own knowledge. He is not and has never been enrolled here."
"But, but how has he been getting in?"
"Apparently he has been making use of another student's misplaced ID?"
"Oh god," said John, rubbing his hand across his face. "How is this real?"
"John," the suited man murmured, catching the young man's attention. "So far we have managed to keep this information between ourselves. This is obviously not something that the university wants to get out. It could be very damaging."
"You're not kidding."
"We would suggest that your knowledge of Sherlock should not leave this room, both for the university and his sake. Are you willing to agree to this?"
John shook his head in disbelief. "I guess so," he stated, despite his movement.
Nick traded smirks with the still unknown man. "I'm afraid you're verbal agreement is not really satisfactory in this circumstance John. We need something a little more concrete."
John left the office thirteen minutes later, dazed. He wandered straight out of the lab, bypassing the hand washing facilities and heading straight for the staircase so that he could get out of the building and into some fresh air. Perhaps then he'd wake up and stop this odd dream.
He meets Sherlock in a laboratory, who ignores him in favour of staring into a microscope. John waits until they're standing close together before he mutters,
"Still playing doctor dress-up? Would you like a scalpel?"
A/N: Cookies for your thoughts?