Gift!fic for the brilliant The Bitter Kitten, an immensely talented writer xx
Set in between The Great Game and A Scandal in Belgravia
John fumbled with the keys to the flat door of 221B Baker Street in the gloom of a damp June evening. There was only thing more tedious than a ten-hour shift at a dull medical clinic in the suburbs: a ten-hour shift at a dull medical clinic in the suburbs, as supervised by the woman who'd dumped you three weeks before.
And then coming home to a dark flat, without even a boiled kettle, he thought as he opened the door to find the lights out, the telly off, and Sherlock Holmes nowhere to be seen. Sherlock had been home very little that week, hot on the case of some missing journalist named Bracker, or something. He'd not even noticed that Sarah was a thing of the past yet. It'd be a sheer miracle if it occurred to him to have something resembling dinner ready for when his flatmate finally got home from his day job.
As John made his way through the kitchen to the fridge, he heard his phone bloop out a text alert. Probably Sherlock. Probably some incomprehensible message like Obvious or Red car all along, or some other thing he'd need to spend ten minutes explaining once he got himself home. If experience went for anything, that mightn't actually be for several days. Sighing, he fished the phone out of his trouser pocket. What a surprise. Text from Sherlock… two texts, in fact, as well as four calls he'd managed to miss.
He frowned. Four missed calls? Sherlock would rather have his fingernails pulled out with pliers than call his mobile… normally.
11 Kentish Place. Please hurry.
- Today 6:11pm
Bring med case as available. NOW, JOHN
- Today 6:13pm
Hurry-please-med case-abbreviation-all caps-no period at the end-
Shit.
John's pulse somehow found its way into his throat. He stood for a couple of seconds, reading the texts over again and feeling a cold flood of adrenaline through his chest.
Kentish Place was just around the corner.
Most of his work-related medical equipment stayed at the clinic overnight, but the First Aid kit sitting in the bottom of his wardrobe was well-stocked, provided Sherlock hadn't been raiding it again.
He took the stairs up to the third floor three at a time.
He found Kentish Place easily enough: a drab, dead-end alley, reeking of the garbage in the open skip bin servicing a nearby restaurant. John stood on the kerb, looking around in the gathering dusk and trying to work out which was the door to number eleven. Before he could delay too long, a door to his right flung open with a bang.
"Sherlock -"
"In here."
John found himself in a grubby, dark hall. There were chunks of bare plaster where the walls should have been smoothed off and the sour stench of vomit and urine wafted through from an open doorway at the end. As Sherlock shut the door behind them, he heard someone crying.
He blundered through the doorway into a tiny room, lit by a bare globe stuck askew into its fitting. On a single mattress, taking up most of the floor-space, a girl lay curled up on her side. She was filthy and dressed only in an oversized men's t-shirt and baggy shorts the colour of gangrene.
"Oh, God," John blurted out, kneeling on the mouldy, damp mattress beside her. "Sherlock, what the hell happened?" In the low light, he'd just noticed the grotesque swell of the girl's right forearm. He reached out and gently touched it, noting how hard and hot the flesh felt under his fingertips and the red and purple lines scribbled along the inner crook and wrist. The girl yelped and screwed her eyes shut. Sherlock took a step back while John took her pulse at the neck.
Racing pulse-clammy-sweating-vomiting-shallow breathing-shivering-arm's a mess-
Sepsis.
"Call an ambulance," he barked over his shoulder, hurrying to pull his jumper off and drape it over the girl's bony shoulders.
"She's been assisting with my enquiries," Sherlock said, answering the first question as if he hadn't heard John's order. "She said she had some information as to the whereabouts of Lewis Bracter and we arranged to meet here. I came here as arranged. She - "
"Sherlock, she's going into shock, will you just shut up and call an ambulance!"
Sherlock took another step back and pulled his phone out of his pocket, and John suddenly realised that if the shivering girl huddled beside him was delirious, she'd just heard incomprehensible, angry shouting.
"Right," he said, swiping grimy clumps of matted hair off her damp forehead. Behind him, he could hear Sherlock calmly navigating the emergency services switchboard triage. "It's okay, we're going to help you, all right? I'm a doctor…"
"No," she slurred, so thickly that John barely understood her. "Don't want…"
"The paramedics don't call the police for drug issues, okay? Promise. We'll get you sorted out, and you're not in trouble. Try not to move, okay? Calm down."
Easy for me to say, he thought to himself. I'm not lying delirious in my own vomit and piss.
"What's your name?" he asked her, brushing her hair back again. A heavy lock slid across her cheek, bringing a smear of milky mucus with it.
She didn't reply. The only human voice in earshot was Sherlock's, as he listed symptoms and directed the incoming ambulance to 11 Kentish Place with more accuracy and less emotion than a GPS system.
Once the ambulance arrived, John had been adamant. No. Go back to the flat. You're just going to get in the way.
Sherlock had a sneaking feeling that he was eventually in for some kind of lecture, though he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. The girl had needed a doctor. He'd called one. Medical assistance had been rendered. What else did John expect him to do?
John arrived back at the flat shortly before nine o'clock, weary and stiff. Sherlock, sitting at the kitchen table examining hair samples under a microscope, glanced at him out of the corner of his eye as he came in. Soldier mode activated.
"Zoe," John said quietly. He folded his jacket neatly and placed it over the back of his armchair, en route to the fridge.
Sherlock frowned.
"Her name is Zoe." John's hand rested on the fridge door handle. "Just, you know, in case you care. She won't die, by the way; I'm sure you'll be thrilled to hear about that. Do you know how old she is?"
Sherlock shut his eyes, trying to remember how the girl – Zoe – looked in a state of (admittedly basic) health, and derive information about her approximate age from it. Abruptly, he realised that this wasn't actually what John was asking him to do. "I'm afraid I don't," he said.
"No, because you don't care." John let go of the fridge door and rounded on him. "It never occurred to you to find out before you used her to gather information for your cases, did it? Just for the record, she's bloody fourteen years old, Sherlock!"
Sherlock looked at him in silence for a few seconds. "I don't know what you want me to say to that."
"Right." John scrubbed at his tired eyes with the heel of his hands and sighed. "You don't ever pay homeless kids to do your legwork for you again, Sherlock. If you're so desperate to finance someone's smack habit, try someone who's at least old enough to vote. Are we clear on that?"
"It's hardly my fault she's an addict. Anyhow, when I realised her condition -"
John chuckled grimly in disgust, and Sherlock stopped short, looking down at his slide again in silence so profound he could hear the clock in the living room ticking. "Clear," he muttered.
The clock behind ticked on, marking out his heartbeats. A sudden gust of wind blew the kitchen blinds outward and then clattering back into their place. John leaned over the sink and shut the window with a bang. "Okay," he said, returning to the fridge for the fourth time since leaving work. "Now I know it's a lot to ask of you, but is there anything actually edible in here?"
A/N: Not my best work, but what can I say? I'm really in the mood for some more sickfics :p
I'd like to make this collection a little more robust. If you have any good ideas for something that would be about the length of a one-shot, do PM me (keeping in mind these ones are canon compliant and only go so far as the end of season 2.)
Edit: regarding the anon-review I got suggesting I write a one-shot where Sherlock is raped...
No.