This is a short up-date - and not very sweet either...!

Chapter Twenty

Sherlock sat hunched in the molded plastic waiting room chair, wearing a pinched expression and turning a cold shoulder towards his companion. John by contrast, relaxed in his chair with his legs outstretched, as he flipped though yet another magazine. He came across an article on interior design and paused to study it more closely.

He and Mary had been living in their shared ownership flat for several years, now, and they were thinking of doing a spot of home improvement and redecorating, so they were actively looking for ideas and suggestions as to what they might include in their design. He settled down to read the article, which had several accompanying photographs that looked rather interesting, too.

'Don't you have patients to see, or something?' Sherlock snapped, to gain John's attention.

'No, mate,' John replied, without taking his eyes from the magazine, 'I'm on nights this week. Finished my shift at seven o'clock.'

'Then surely you should be at home, getting some well-earned restful sleep so that you can return, refreshed, tonight and perform even more life-saving miracles?'

'I managed a couple of hours' kip in the Duty Doctors' Room, after I clocked off,' John replied, choosing not to rise to the heavy sarcasm. 'And when I get home, I'll go straight to bed, and be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed again, by this evening.'

Sherlock lapsed back into a sullen silence, looking every inch the stroppy teenager, forced by his over-bearing parents to attend some annoyingly trivial event. But behind that disgruntled façade, his mind was racing, as ever. He wondered if he should call Molly. She really wanted to be with him when he got the results from the Holter monitor.

But she had lost quite a bit of time from work, lately - with school meetings about Freddie and whatnot - and she had booked two days' holiday, following Mycroft's wedding, so that they didn't have to rush back to London on the Sunday night. Sherlock knew Molly would want to clear her desk before the weekend, so as not to leave anything pending that would increase her colleagues' workloads, in her absence.

So he couldn't call her now and ask her to dash over to St Mary's. It just wasn't an option.

He glanced across at John, engrossed in his magazine. He knew his friend meant well but, sometimes, John's behaviour could be rather galling. It was bad enough when Mycroft assumed the role of 'father' in their relationship – at least he had some precedence – but it was even worse when John did it! They were, after all, supposed to be equals, colleagues, best friends even.

Sherlock looked around at all the other people sitting in the waiting room and wondered how many of them wish they'd had a doctor friend who could have pulled a few strings and bumped them up the waiting list? The average waiting time for an NHS referral was eighteen weeks. Had these people been waiting that long? Was he being ungrateful?

'Mr Holmes?' The voice broke into his thoughts and he looked up to see a nurse gazing around the room, waiting for someone to identify themselves. But John was already on his feet and beckoning for Sherlock to do likewise so he rose from the chair with as much dignity as he could muster, under the circumstances, and made to stride forward but suddenly stopped and turned to his friend.

'Thank you, John. I can take it from here,' he said.

John gave him a cynical smile and shook his head but, as he opened his mouth to demur, Sherlock ducked his head and hissed into his friend's ear,

'I have no idea which or how many protocols you have breached in order to facilitate my queue-jumping but, on one issue, I am completely clear and that is my right to patient confidentiality. You are not my doctor, John, and the fact that you have accessed my private medical files, without my permission, I find rather disturbing.'

John stepped back and looked at his friend with a mixture of surprise and amusement, not quite sure whether Sherlock was being serious or not.

'You're right,' he said at last, stepping forward again to keep the conversation private between the two of them. 'I've put my career on the line to do this for you. I could be severely disciplined for abusing the privilege of my position…'

'Ah, well, I'm glad that you are at least aware of that,' Sherlock replied. 'But you've done more than enough, thank you, so off you go back home and leave me to have a private consultation with my physician.'

John stared open-mouthed at the ingrate then gave an indignant huff and said,

'Fine. Fine. If that's how you want to play it. But remind me never to do you any more favours, will you?'

'Hopefully, I won't have to,' Sherlock replied.

Without another word, John turned and stalked out of the clinic.

Sherlock turned back to the nurse, waiting by the double doors that led from the public area to the clinical area. She had been intrigued by the whispered exchange between the two men but had been unable to hear any of the subject matter.

'After you,' said Sherlock, giving her a charming smile.

The nurse led the way into the consulting room and Sherlock recognised the same cardiologist who had treated him in A and E, the week before. She greeted him with a professional smile and gestured for him to take a seat in the patient's chair.

'I have the printout from your Holter monitor, Mr Holmes, and also the results of the blood tests I ordered…' she began.

'Good,' replied Sherlock, abruptly. 'Are they those?' he asked, pointing to the file on the desk in front of the doctor.

'Er, yes, they are…' she answered, a little taken aback by his brusque manner.

'Fine. Would you be so kind as to pop them into an envelope. I'll take them with me,' declared Sherlock, smiling brightly and nodding towards the file.

'Oh, but I thought…' the registrar stammered.

'I fear you've been misinformed,' Sherlock interjected, adopting an apologetic tone. 'I never asked to be given preferential treatment. I am painfully aware that the resources of the National Health Service are stretched almost to breaking point and I, unlike the other patients waiting out there, am fortunate enough to be able to afford very comprehensive private medical insurance.'

The doctor was staring at him, nonplussed, as Sherlock continued,

'So, if you don't mind, I'll take the results of my tests – tests for which I am extremely grateful – and I'll take them to my GP. And if he feels that any further investigation is required, he will make a private referral for me to see a cardiologist. And I won't need to take up any more of your, or the NHS's, precious time.'

Sherlock cocked his head at the registrar as she stared back at him, for several seconds, then gave a curt nod and reached across her desk to retrieve a large brown envelope.

'If that is your wish, Mr Holmes, then I will fulfil it,' she said, removing the printouts from the hospital folder and pushing them into the envelope, along with the cursed diary. She then sealed the envelope and, after tapping a few keys on her keyboard, she copied the name of Sherlock's GP from her screen onto the envelope then wrote, in large uppercase letters, PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL, along the top of the envelope before handing it to him.

Sherlock accepted it, graciously, rose from his chair and offered her his hand.

'I'm glad to see you looking better, Mr Holmes,' the doctor said as they shook hands. 'And I found your diary content quite intriguing,' she added, with a mischievous smile.

Sherlock returned her smile with a nod and exited the consulting room, clutching the plain brown envelope to his chest.

ooOoo

Yes, Sherlock hates to be out-thought and out-manoeuvred!

Thank you to all my faithful readers for your continued support and your lovely reviews. I do love to hear what you think of my scribbling!