Friends with Benefits

by Soledad

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

Genre: Romance/Friendship

Rating: Teens, for now

Disclaimer: Sherlock and all related characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The modern versions of them belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, may their muses never abandon them. I only borrow settings and characters to have some fun. No copyright infringement intended and no money made.

Summary: Just how did John get the job at the very surgery where Sarah worked? Perhaps he had some help?

Author's note: All details on British medical training are taken from wellingtongoose's excellent meta, who knows what s/he is talking about. I'm neither British, nor a doctor, so I needed some professional help with the background facts.

Beta read by Linda Hoyland in record time, thanks!

Prologue

"I need a job," John Watson declared unhappily and stared at his pint of beer as if there were something suspicious about it.

Detective Inspector Lestrade, sitting on the other side of the table with his own pint, looked at the ex-Army-doctor with tolerant amusement.

"Life with Sherlock too expensive for you?" he asked.

In the last month and a half, since the end of the so-called "serial suicides", the detective inspector and the doctor had become… well, if not exactly friends, at least casual acquaintances. Bonding over the fact that they both had to deal with the brilliant, arrogant and difficult Sherlock Holmes – the world's only consulting detective – in their respective ways, the two semi-regularly met for pints in various pubs to commiserate.

Since Sherlock despised pubs, unless he had to set foot in one for a case – as he always said, the level of noise and stupidity offended him too much – they could be fairly certain he wouldn't show up unexpectedly to bother them.

Unless he wanted to show off, that is, but that usually happened in connection with a case, not in the lull time in-between.

"You mean the fact that he never bothers with paying for the cab or with doing the shopping?" John asked back with only a minimum of annoyance. He'd already grown used to Sherlock's nonchalant attitude towards the dull facts of life… that is, to almost everything not related to a case. "Nah, that's not the problem. If I wanted, I could use his card all the time. He's quite generous with his money for someone who needed a flatmate so that he would be able to afford 221B."

"Oh, he's got more than enough money," Lestrade grinned. "It's his brother who wanted him to get a flatmate, and Mycroft is the one who controls the Holmes family money, including Sherlock's considerable funds. That's the only leash he has on Sherlock… such as it is."

"Why would Mycroft want Sherlock to have a flatmate?" John asked with a frown. "Cause he needed somebody to spy on his brother?"

"That's one way to put it," Lestrade agreed. "Mycroft Holmes is a controlling, overbearing bastard with a tendency towards melodrama, but in his own twisted way he truly cares for Sherlock. Sherlock, of course, calls it meddling – and he isn't entirely wrong about that – and does his best to escape his brother's constant… er… attention. You know what a pig-headed idiot he can be if he doesn't want to do something, right?"

"Oh yeah," John said with feeling.

He lived under the same roof as the madman, after all. Long enough to know that as fascinating as Sherlock could be, he was by no means safe. Not for himself, and most definitely not for those around him.

"In any case," Lestrade continued. "Mycroft would never allow his little brother to run out of money, as long as he can be reasonably sure that Sherlock wouldn't spend it on drugs. Having a reliable person living with Sherlock means that he can be reliably sure about that."

John shook his head. It sounded good, that voice of confidence, but he knew he didn't earn it.

"I'd never be able to find Sherlock's secret stash if he really put his mind to hiding it," he said glumly.

"Of course not," Lestrade agreed. "There's a reason why my drug busts never come up with any results… and I'm not sure that the reason is that the flat would be truly clean. But with enough puzzles to occupy that over-active mind of his, and with you to give him all the attention he not-so-secretly craves, the danger of him relapsing is considerably less."

"Don't be ridiculous," John laughed. "He thinks I'm an idiot; and he doesn't exactly make a secret of his opinion."

"Well, compared with him we all are, with the exception of Mycroft, of course" Lestrade shrugged. "That's not the point, though."

"What is the point, then?"

"The point is: you admire his abilities and aren't afraid to say so," Lestrade explained. "You must understand that he probably never had this: somebody who wanted to be with him because of who – or what– he is, not in spite of it. You say 'fantastic' and 'extraordinary' when other people say 'freak'. Sherlock loves to show off…"

"… which is the understatement of the century…" John grinned.

"… and you're the ideal audience for him," Lestrade finished. "Beyond that, you can stitch him up when he foolishly injures himself, so that he won't have to go to the hospital, which he hates, and you watch his back in all sorts of dangerous situations."

"Oh, please!" John protested. "Seriously, I'm just tagging along cause I don't have anything better to do. Which is why I need a job… apart from the fact that I need the money."

Lestrade gave him a sharp glance, usually reserved for suspects that tried to sell him a really stupid story.

"John, despite what Sherlock thinks, I'm not an idiot. "I know what happened to that cabbie… Jeff Hope, wasn't it? And so does Mycroft."

"I don't know what you're talking about," John said blandly. "But I must admit that whatever Mycroft Holmes might think about me fills me with a certain degree of dread. Make that a fairly high degree of dread, actually."

"Nonsense," Lestrade snorted. "Believe me: Mycroft is as happy to have you living with his brother as he's capable of any kind of happiness at all. You've made his life considerably easier, being the only person Sherlock's ever tolerated for longer than a week. Of course, the fact that you're a doctor and an ex-soldier with a good aim does help,' he added thoughtfully.

John looked at him with more than just a little suspicion.

"You seem to know them very well."

"Better than most people," Lestrade corrected. "I seriously doubt that anyone save for that infamous Mummy of theirs – whom I've never met, by the way – would really know them. But yeah, I've been working with Sherlock more or less regularly for five years by now. I've known him since he was a skinny sixteen-year-old cocaine addict, living on the street and intruding in our crime scenes now and then to confront us about our stupidity. I've seen him go through therapy and relapse several times; it wasn't pretty. Trust me, Mycroft would be more than happy to pay for everything the two of you might need, as long as Sherlock remains clean and reasonably safe."

"I'm sure he would," John said dryly. "But I'm not one of Mycroft's paid minions. I'm more than capable of fending for myself – or I would be, if I could find at least a part-time job."

"Are you having financial problems?" Lestrade asked bluntly.

"I've got a few unpaid bills lately," John admitted with considerable reluctance; he hated discussing his problems, which was the main hindrance with his therapy, too. "Even paying half the rent for 221B isn't easy with my Army pension. I need some additional income to be able to afford London; and no, I won't accept money from Mycroft. I'm with Sherlock 'cause he's fascinating and I enjoy his company despite his faults, not 'cause Mycroft believes he needs a minder."

"He does, though," Lestrade said. "Need a minder, I mean. But I see your point. In fact, I had a similar discussion with Mycroft five… no, almost six years ago. Okay, about that job you need… you are a fully qualified GP, aren't you?"

John nodded. "Of course. I took an intercalated year studying for a Bachelor of Medical Science degree at the beginning of my medical course at King's College London before the usual five years of studies and the following training at Barts, but that doesn't mean I'm not fully qualified."

"And you're still registered with the GMC?"

"Sure; I still am a doctor, aren't I? Without the registration, I wouldn't be allowed to work as one. Why?"

"'Cause I think I can help you find a job," Lestrade said. "An old friend of mine is the administrator of a large shared Practice. As far as I know, they often hire locum doctors to step in for colleagues who're ill or don't want to work out of hours. I can put in a word for you. She does tend to listen to me."

"She?" John repeated, grinning. "A lady friend then, eh? Does your wife know about her?"

"My wife," Lestrade said dryly, "is in no position to protest against my choice of friends, considering the rather questionable choices she had made in the recent years… if one can trust Sherlock's observational skills; and we both know that one can. But yeah, she does know about Sarah – she's known about her from the start."

"Which was how long ago?" John made a defensive gesture. "Just curious, honestly."

"Nineteen-ninety-four," Lestrade replied simply. John whistled.

"That's a long time, man!"

Lestrade shrugged. "Almost as long as my marriage, yeah. Only it held better. When I first met Sarah, I was freshly married and still walking the beat. She was in her fourth year of medical school – UCL, if you have to know, not that it would really matter – and in serious trouble. My partner and I helped her out. I got a knife between my ribs for my pain, but we managed to arrest her attackers, and I gained a friend for life. Not that I'd know that back then."

"Attackers?" John repeated, frowning. "Was she seriously hurt?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Nah; she got away relatively unharmed, albeit thoroughly traumatized as result… Listen, this is not my story to tell. If she wants to, she'll share. If she doesn't, you still might get a job… if you want me to give her a call."

"Oh God, yes," Johns aid fervently.

Lestrade raised an amused eyebrow.

"Aren't you afraid it would be deadly boring after all the serious action with the Army and with running after Sherlock across London?"

John's right hand crept up to his left shoulder instinctively. It was a rainy day, and his injured shoulder was aching, dully but persistently. Another thing he had to get used to for the long run, it seemed.

"Not everyone reacts to boredom with shooting the walls as Sherlock does," he replied. "I can use a bit of boredom to balance out all the excitement that living with a madman entails. Boredom is seriously underestimated in our age; it can be quite therapeutic, you know."

Lestrade grinned. "If it doesn't kill you first."

"There is that," John admitted ruefully. "So yeah, if you could put in a word for me, I'd be grateful. Without wanting to boast, I am a very good doctor, and I have a series of skills that can come in handy for a GP practice. My experience in emergency medicine and surgery, for starters."

"I doubt they'd need you to perform major surgery in their operation room," Lestrade said doubtfully.

John laughed. "I'm not talking about amputations or organ transplantation. But even GP practices do get emergency patients on occasion – mostly meningitis or heart attacks – and it's important that all locum doctors are comfortable and experienced in dealing with common emergencies."

"But they won't need a surgeon for that, would they?"

"Not a battlefield trauma surgeon, no," John agreed. "But GPs that have doctors capable of performing minor operations – like putting in stitches or cutting out small skin lesions – get more money from the government, 'cause it saves the patient a trip to the hospital… and it saves the NHS money."

"So, you're basically aspiring for the position of the resident GP minor ops doctor?" Lestrade grinned.

John grinned back at him. "Problem?"

The DI shook his head.

"No; what I've seen of you in action makes me think that you'll be a very useful minor ops doctor. Put your CV together, I'll make that call, and we'll see how things will turn out."

"Er… putting the CV together won't be a problem; actually, I've already done that on my laptop," John said. "But I don't have a printer, and if Sherlock does have one, he's hidden it well."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "You can print it out in my office. God knows Sherlock uses it as if it was his own."

"He does the same with my laptop," John grinned. "The lazy git couldn't even be bothered to fetch his own from the bedroom."

"That's Sherlock for you," Lestrade said philosophically. "Still, I'd miss the idiot, should he suddenly and mysteriously disappear. And so would you, admit it – he grows on you, despite everything."

"Guilty as charged," John admitted, and they laughed and finished their drinks before going their separate ways for the rest of the day.

TBC~