Author's Note: I know, I know – 50 billion years since the last update on this, but don't think I've forgotten it! Writer's block and busy busy life have prevented me, not to mention a whole bunch of other fic ideas clamouring for attention! Urgh, if only I could write fic all day every day…what my life would be then! Luckily for all concerned, I have holidays sneaking up (next week!) so I'll have more opportunity to work on this. I can't wait!
Sorry to everyone who has waited and waited for an update. I don't expect buckets of joy for my returning to this now, I just want to get the story out. I have had to change certain aspects of the fic for my brain to be able to work with it again, but I think you'll find it hasn't altered much from how it was.
I hope it can still be enjoyed!
xxRegretteRienxx
Thanks were not part of the deal, and Valerie would have had to be a fool to think Sherlock was going to offer any up as he unfolded his long frame out of the tinted-glass recesses of the car.
Finding the Kenton and Lucas wing was no challenge – hospitals were, after all, greatly disposed towards labeling their corridors and making the buildings accessible.
"Holmes." He answered, before the receptionist could post the stupefyingly dull, predictable question.
"Oh! Sure!" the girl exclaimed, reading the addendum to Sherlock's booking. Whatever it said, it had the unfortunate effect of causing her to become intolerably flustered. "Certainly. Please go through to Exam Room 5, er…my lord. The doctor will be along shortly."
Lord? Sherlock considered. He was going to kill Mycroft the next time he saw him. A nice, long, drawn-out death.
Sherlock wasn't entirely sure whether Mycroft knew he'd been contemplating different ways to slaughter his brother for years now, and had a choice of five entirely untraceable (or at least, 98% untraceable, especially knowing the London 'investigative' forces) strategies to eradicate him.
He wasn't in the exam room long enough by himself to thoroughly investigate it, which was a shame, because he suspected there was a mass of treasures just waiting to be discovered via the delights of The Blank Prescription Pad.
"Mr. Holmes." The doctor said matter-of-factly as he entered the room. Sherlock turned to face him, to optimally study him, but didn't otherwise respond. "I hope you don't mind my calling you 'mister', I just don't see titles as being integral parts of making diagnoses. Take a seat, won't you?" His tone was congenial, and he gestured absently towards the examination table.
Without intending to, Sherlock sat down. A spark of admiration for the doctor's lack of bowing and scraping to the nonsense title Mycroft had lumped him with, flared in Sherlock.
He wondered whether he'd be able to convince the doctor that he had a non-visible condition that didn't require institutionalisation, but did require medication…preferably fun medication. Otherwise, what was the real point of all this? Sherlock wasn't honestly sure how much interrogation he could tolerate.
"The stats we were sent from your previous doctor are quite impressive, I must say." The doctor mentioned, still flicking through them. "Despite quite a few childhood knockabouts, you seem to be in good health. But we'll still do a perfunctory check-up to be on the safe side. And speaking of being safe…" he looked at Sherlock with his eyebrows raised, silently questioning.
"What?" Sherlock sneered, the first he'd spoken in this appointment.
"Have you been being safe?" the doctor pressed, gently. "If you know, or suspect that you are at risk of having contracted any STIs, we will test for that. Otherwise, we'll just run a general check."
Sherlock refrained from answering. If he did have an STI, Mycroft would hear about it, and if Mycroft had something he could pass off as an excuse to smother Sherlock with a 'protective' living environment…Sherlock would rather be dead.
He hoped morosely for a terminal condition, one which would slip by the doctor's tests unnoticed (the number of false negatives possible was somewhat proportional to the number of false positives – overall, there was a high likelihood that whatever the test results indicated, they would not accurately reflect Sherlock's actual physical condition), but he knew deep down that he probably wouldn't be so lucky.
"Just…do a normal check. And be quick." Sherlock ground out, resisting the urge to curl in on himself which sitting on the doctor's examination bench.
"Ok." The doctor nodded, neutrally, leaving a check box blank on his form. "I'll just do the usual: temperature, eyes, ears, throat, reflexes…you know the drill. And then we'll get a urine sample, and you'll be right!"
He was too cheerful for Sherlock's mood, but at least he was being relatively time-efficient.
A few minutes later, Sherlock's hand shook inordinately as he passed the doctor the small jar containing his urine. The doctor raised an eyebrow at the jerky motion, and questioned in a steady voice, "Alright?"
Sherlock clenched his jaw and nodded sharply, but then at the last second, shook his head. "Please…check for everything?" he requested, his voice painfully, shamefully weak. "It's possible that I might have been exposed to…something."
The doctor nodded, and turned away to open a drawer, pulling out a blood sample kit. Sherlock sat on the examination bench once more, now shaking uncontrollably with sobs. He was going to be found as having every STI under the sun, he thought irrationally. That meant Mycroft was going to swoop in like the great big interfering rodent he was, and Sherlock was going to have to live out his days in the Holmes household, back with Mummy and Daddy and all their rules about 'socially acceptable' and 'correct' behaviour…
The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly. This emotional stuff obviously wasn't his area, Sherlock realised, but there was no space in his turmoil for him to feel any guilt for making the doctor uncomfortable.
"Mr Holmes, do you have any suspicions of which STI we should be looking for? Are you experiencing any symptoms at the moment, such as pain, nausea…?"
Sherlock snapped his head up in a sudden rage. "I don't want to tell you!" he exploded. "I don't have to tell you! Just take the blood and get it done with! Hurry up with ruining my life, why don't you?" He commanded, laying his arm out in invitation.
"Ok, ok." The doctor said reassuringly, hands held up in a manner to indicate he was harmless. It would have been more convincing if he hadn't had a syringe in one hand, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention to him anymore. "Fine?" The doctor said, placating, and approached cautiously, proceeding once it became apparent Sherlock wasn't going to make any more sudden moves.
Sherlock pulled himself together gradually as his blood filled the container, then sniffed and shook his head once the needle was finally withdrawn. He stood to make his way out of the examination room.
"You'll find quantities of heroin, cocaine, and marijuana in those samples, doctor, but I don't expect you should have any problems overlooking them. There is no need to tell anyone besides myself about any of the results. Not even Mycroft. Doctor-patient confidentiality should be able to cover me, even against him, surely."
The doctor nodded, assuring Sherlock of his right to privacy, and that oversights in regards to certain people's choices of recreation could always be made. "Er…who's Mycroft?" he questioned at the end of his standard speech, hoping it wouldn't set off his erratically-emotioned patient.
Of course Mycroft wouldn't contact the doctor directly, Sherlock considered. "Never mind." He instructed, glaring at nothing in particular. "Do the tests."
Valerie was still in the car outside, and Sherlock pushed down the irrational feelings of gratitude. Mycroft could have forced his company on him, and played escort, but clearly he hadn't wanted to put Sherlock through more distress than necessary – it wasn't that he was too busy, otherwise he wouldn't be keeping in such close contact with Valerie, texting her throughout Sherlock's appointment. He must know that such a gesture would be perceived by Sherlock as being kind…what did he want from Sherlock now?
Sherlock didn't want to think about it.
"How did you go?" Valerie asked, attempting to appear nonchalant as she typed away on her phone.
"Mind your own business." Sherlock snarled. "And be sure to tell Mycroft the same."
Valerie's hurt look normally would have affected Sherlock at least to some extent, but right now her unnecessarily cute (why did Mycroft only hire attractive assistants? Aesthetics was not an indication of work quality!) pout was invisible.
"If I don't have any further ridiculous duties required of me, then I would appreciate being returned to Baker Street." Sherlock announced, impatient to get away.
"Not Russell Square?" Valerie muttered bitterly, clicking a few more keys.
Sherlock shot her a look, but made no comment. So Mycroft's surveillance spreads that far? He fished out another cigarette and considered.
Today was too much effort. He needed something, something stronger than nicotine to take the edge off. His mind returned to the thrills brought by cocaine.
Currently, he had two sources for that – Tommy, who may or may not be at the flat, and who Sherlock was not at all certain he wished to see at the moment; or the dealer's house. Sherlock remembered where it was, and surely he didn't need to be accompanied by Tommy to get anything from them – his money would do all the talking for him.
Wait. Did he have any money? He checked his pockets. Ah. These were the jeans from last night, then. There was a handful of notes in one pocket, and a strip of condoms in the other.
"Yes." Sherlock decreed.
"Yes?" Valerie inquired.
"Yes, actually, I'd like to go to Russell Square. Now."
Valerie passed the instruction on to the driver, the turned her attention back to Sherlock briefly. "I know for a fact that you and your brother were raised with good manners. It probably wouldn't kill you to employ them on occasion."
Sherlock blew out a puff of smoke. "Probably wouldn't, no. Best not to risk it though, don't you think?" he smiled with a sort of twisted humour.
Valerie didn't seem as amused. "Drive quickly, please." She requested the driver, and went back to her phone.