Chapter IV: Playing Doctors
The Doctor was investigating John's room. You can always judge a man by what he keeps in his bedroom, that's what he believes. Also by the quality of his enemies and the books he reads.
On John's bedside table was a book. Complete, too. "John Watson: My Adventures With Sherlock Holmes". A semi-autobiographical tale of his experiences over the past three years. The Doctor speed-read it. To an ordinary person, it may seem like a slightly romanticised account of the past, but to The Doctor, it was as if someone had remixed history. And he knew precisely who.
Putting it down, he also noticed a bullet. Used.
From out of his (bigger-on-the-)inside pocket, The Doctor pulled a monocle, held the bullet up close, and examined it. If you'd been there, he could have told you the the war it was from, what gun fired it and where it was manufactured. This was the bullet that shot John Watson.
John woke up on a bunk bed. The walls were white with strange, alien roundels embedded in them, and the lighting was low. In the distance, there was a faint, electronic humming noise.
The Doctor appeared in the doorway.
"Good morning, John."
John covered up. "What the f-"
"Don't worry, you've only spent the night here. I figured your house isn't a very safe place to be, right now."
John slowly turned his head toward The Doctor. "Why...are you protecting me?"
The Doctor considered the notion, and tilted his head back a bit.
"I suppose I am, yeah."
John grabbed-hold of the banister of the top bunk.
"So...does that mean I'm dangerous?" he propositioned.
Given recent events, The Doctor knew his answer. "Quite possibly."
"Is that why you're keeping me in this bedroom?" John whiled.
"That is correct, yes."
John went for it.
"Well anything could happen..."
The Doctor smiled, and was quick to let out a short "No", and walked-away.
John got a text.
"Meet me at Club. Urgent.
- MH"