A/N/Disclaimer: As usual, characters belong to Moffat, Gatiss and Conan Doyle.

Beta: Allie Clark

It was excellent luck that John and Molly wandered into each other at breakfast. They had both been so occupied in the past four days that they hadn't seen much of each other since they'd landed in Am Timan. They were officially finished with their training, meaning that they were now on their own.

"Morning!" John greeted her, still somewhat pleased with the fact that their kitchen had been stocked with English tea. She raised tired eyes to him and offered a half hearted salute, stirring her mug of coffee.

"Tired?" he inquired, sitting next to her. She looked down into her drink.

"Not a morning person," she mumbled, taking a delicate sip of coffee. Dr. Crane breezed in at her usual breakneck pace, grabbing herself a mug of coffee. The American doctor had been a wonderful teacher to John in the past days. This was her fourth trip with MSF, although it was her first to Africa.

"Hello John," she said brightly, passing over a large round plate, "This is bouillie. Ever have some?" John and Molly cocked their heads to the side and looked at the round, pale balls of what looked like dough.

"I don't believe I have," he responded carefully. Surprisingly, he had been given food that he was somewhat used to, only trying one or two of the traditional foods from Chad in the four days that he had been here. Dr. Crane plucked one from the plate and motioned for Molly to do the same.

"It tastes sort of like oatmeal. It's made from peanuts and millet, and it's boiled in water. Try some." Gingerly, he did.

"It's not bad," he admitted. The other doctor smiled and pulled her silver-black hair into a tight ponytail at the back of her head.

"Told you. I have to get going, see you at TFC!" Molly put down her coffee and scrunched up her nose in confusion.

"TFC?"

"Therapeutic Feeding Centre."

"You work with malnutrition," she said quietly, "Is it terrible?" John looked away.

"Somewhat." Truth be told, it was horrid. He hated that the majority of children that he'd seen were under the age of four, and they were already slowly starving to death. But malnutrition was so much more than starving: it was not having the vitamins and the immune system to fight off disease. It was much more complex and heartbreaking than anything he could have ever imagined. Molly's hand radio spoke suddenly, leading her to take off for the morning. John hung around for a moment longer before he cleaned up and headed off to surgery.

Sherlock, having timed his entrance perfectly, poured himself a mug of black tea just as the remainder of volunteers were clearing out. Turning to go, he found the project manager in his path.

"Lestrade," he said, only mildly annoyed thus far. Sherlock could tolerate people in small doses. Very small, very silent doses.

"I suppose we'll have to speak about John Watson," Greg said, picking up an empty mug. Sherlock allowed a flicker of interest. He had gotten a glimpse or two of the man the night before.

"The army doctor." Lestrade seemed surprised.

"How did you-"

"Honestly, Lestrade, you act as if I've never done it before. Were you expecting his entire life story, or is that sufficient?" As Sherlock turned to go, Greg put down the mug and blocked his way. He sighed.

"Sherlock, we've got to talk about this."

"We haven't got to talk about anything. The doctor is staying in my room, and that is that." Greg looked up in wonder. Sherlock could see him reiterating his words over and over in his head. He couldn't imagine how boring it must have been, being so simple.

"You'll have him, then?" Sherlock put down his tea and whipped around in the opposite direction, away from Lestrade.

"I don't have much of a choice, now, do I?" he tossed over his shoulder, almost like a second thought, "He seems useful, at any rate."

John's translator, Radeyah, greeted him as he entered the TFC.

"Êtes-vous prêt?" she asked pleasantly, leading the way. Are you ready?

"Oui," he mumbled, reaching for his charts and fumbling for a working pen. As it was the dry season, the malnutrition and starvation were worse than what he'd been told was usual. It was still early, however; they had yet to reach the spike that came at the midpoint of the season. Dr. Crane patted his shoulder as she hustled by. Struggling to recall for a moment, John went outside the main floor and received his first patient: a two year old boy and his mother. She carried her son in one hand, and a basket of wash in the other.

"Je vais chercher votre fils installés, et puis je peux vous montrer l'endroit où placer le lavage, d'accord?" he said to the woman, waiting for Radeyah to translate it to Arabic. I'll get your son settled first, and then I'll show you where to put your wash, okay? The woman nodded and started rattling off sentences in Arabic, leaving John feeling hopeless. So far, he had only met two patients that spoke French; it seemed that the only ones who knew any of the language were either somewhat well to do, or had been allowed to continue their education. Radeyah, he knew, had come from a family that had enough money to allow her to go to college and become a translator for MSF. They had only met a few days prior, but already, he owed her everything. His Arabic was nonexistent, though he had managed to pick up a few words here or there. John took the child from his mother and placed him on the examination table, pulling out the MUAC band from a box on a nearby table.

"Je suis juste mesure, il ne sera pas lui faire de mal," he said quietly, I'm just measuring, it won't hurt him. He liked to let the parents know what he was doing every step of the way, just so that they wouldn't have to worry. Using the band, he took a quick measure of the boy's upper arm. John unwound the band and picked up the boy again.

"Quel est son nom?" he asked, what is his name? Radeyah relayed the information to his mother as he put the boy into an empty bed.

"Zuhayr," she announced. John asked for a spelling as he filled out the chart. The woman stood nervously beside Radeyah, whispering in her ear.

"Elle veut savoir si il va bien se passer," she said, she would like to know if he's going to be okay. With his back turned to the both of them, John began connecting Zuhayr to the surgery's rudimentary monitoring system.

"Il doit rester pendant vingt quatre heures," he told the mother, He'll need to stay for twenty four hours. Before Radeyah had even finished translating, the woman shook her head.

"Elle ne peut pas rester vingt-quatre heures." John sighed. He'd been warned that some mothers were unable to stay for the twenty-four hour period that their children needed to remain in the TFC. He knew that there was a special program for situations such as these, but he had obviously never administered it before, and he didn't want to do anything incorrectly and harm the child. Scribbling a note down on his clipboard, John went over and collected the vitamins and antibiotics that he would administer. That was the most that he could do until Dr. Crane reappeared. He explained what he was doing and gave Zuhayr the injections, becoming mildly worried when the child barely reacted to the sting of the needle.

"Ce sont des vitamines et des antibiotiques. Si vous ne pouvez pas rester toute la journée, pouvez-vous rester jusqu'à environ quatre et revenez demain?" John called over his shoulder, putting a band-aid over the injection site and smiling at the little boy, Those are vitamins and antibiotics. If you can't stay all day, can you stay until about four and come back tomorrow? The mother looked torn, but finally she nodded, and John breathed a sigh of relief.

"Everything going okay?" Dr. Crane asked, startling him. She had a way of doing that, just appearing out of nowhere.

"They aren't able to stay for the entire twenty four hours, so he'll need to be put on the day programme. How much milk do I administer?" She peered at the numbers he'd scrawled on the chart and went to the case, returning with the proper dosage of milk. Dr. Crane crouched beside Zuhayr and quickly checked his temperature, heart rate, and eyes as she murmured soothing Arabic in his ear. Standing, she handed John the milk and pointed out the feeding chart taped to the case.

"Careful. Too much too soon and he'll get sick." Exchanging a smile with Zuhayr's mother, she strode off to assist another new arrival. John, slightly unnerved at the doctor's ease and agility, prepared the milk cautiously and gave it to Zuhayr as Radeyah translated his instructions. Satisfied, he turned to his mother and guided her to the wash area.

"There's others," Dr. Crane warned on her way past, "Hurry up." John sighed and started on his way back to the main floor.

Molly closed her eyes and ran her hands through her strawberry hair. She had known that it wouldn't be easy, and she hadn't expected it to be. That was what she had come here for, wasn't it? The challenge? She opened her eyes and stretched, seized by the sudden desire to leave the cramped room that she had been working in all morning. On her journey around the building, she wandered into Adnan, her translator. They exchanged a few words in awkward French, and then they went their separate ways. Molly chewed her ponytail and poured herself another cup of coffee. She'd been here for over four days now, and it seemed as if everyone was speaking fluent French. Well, everyone except for her. It made it harder to communicate with Adnan, and it made her look horribly unprofessional.

She hated having to page through the ever present English/French dictionary at her side, or having to wait while her hand held translator switched languages. It was terrible, really, the way she needed a translator to speak with her translator. She wanted to speak the language, really, she did...But she never seemed to have the time to sit John down and ask him. Though they were housed in the same building, their schedules seemed to conflict all of the time, and the only time they saw each other was for a few moments in the morning. Cupping her drink in both hands, Molly started back to her new office, mentally attempting to gear herself up for what would come next. Already the stories were beginning to take their toll on her; she'd heard more tales of torture, murder, abuse, and rape than she had ever seen or heard on television in America. And this was real, there was no making any of this up. By the time she got back, Adnan had already called in her next patient. Molly forced a smile and grabbed her translator.

Sherlock threw down his ink pen and studied the expense report he'd just completed. Bored, he tucked it haphazardly into a pile on his desk and shoved up, looking around for something to occupy him, something challenging. On occasion, he had lent his expertise to the scientists in their lab simply for the fun of it; he knew more about what they were up to than they ever would, and he wasn't the least bit shy about letting that on. He considered a visit, but decided against it at the last moment, thinking the task too menial for his skill. Grabbing his key from beneath a stack of paper, he locked the door to the office behind him and began the short walk to Building 1B, disregarding the security protocol. He'd done it so often that Lestrade had given up trying to force him to stick to the rules. They both knew that his walking about on his own was a major security breach, but the bother of enforcing it was greater. They had an understanding akin to that, Sherlock and Greg. He was quite helpful if he found Lestrade's problems to be interesting enough to keep him occupied.

Sherlock was notorious for sticking his nose where it didn't belong, as he often did on days such as these. He rolled his eyes mentally as he recited that passwords that allowed him access into the building, knowing all the while that an imbecile could figure out the codes if they truly had the desire. He used another key and unlocked the door to his room. 'Their room, rather', he reminded himself, seeing Dr. Watson's things strewn about the bed and in the small chest of drawers by the side wall. Since John had moved into his room, Sherlock had arranged it so that they hadn't met. Not until he firmly grasped a good idea of who the man was would he decide whether or not he was worthy of his time. He paced, hands behind his back, not touching but observing. Medical doctor from the military, which he had already deduced. He'd had a slight limp when he walked; very likely psychosomatic more than anything. He'd been injured and returned too early. Most likely, he suffered from post traumatic stress disorder, and his therapist had encouraged - no, enforced - journaling. The doctor reluctantly did so, nightly. Sherlock could have gone on, but he chose against it and sat himself on the corner of his sparsely used bed. He supposed the doctor would make for an interesting diversion. That aside, Moriarty was becoming restless. It would do to have companion this time.

John and Dr. Ira Palmer climbed into a vacant Jimny and checked in with their hand radios. As the car lurched forward, the pair lapsed into companionable silence. They'd found, through a near accident at the TFC, that they were set up on identical schedules. In speaking, they had also discovered that they'd both served in the military. Separate infantry units, but the same war. Separate countries as well; Ira was from New Jersey. Thanking the driver, they exited the car and headed inside, murmuring the pass codes and gaining entrance into their building. John craned his neck, somewhat disappointed when he didn't find Molly. He did, however, catch a glimpse of the logistician. Moriarty, wasn't it? John avoided his eyes and followed Ira into the kitchen. He opened and closed several cabinets before happening upon tea. John shook the box, disappointed when he found it empty.

"It's mostly Americans here," Dr. Palmer called from the refrigerator, "Most of them finished before you showed up," he added. He took the "them" to be the other English volunteers stationed here. John started the coffee maker instead. He didn't appreciate the taste, but the much needed burst of caffeine was gratifying.

"How do the meals work around here?" he asked Ira, leaning against the counter. They had sixty minutes for lunch, and twenty of them were already gone. Ira passed him a covered platter and two paper plates. Grabbing a plastic fork, the American uncovered the plate.

"In this building, we have a couple kitchen aids," he began, poking at the cold fish, "They cook and clean-"

"Hired help?" John broke in, putting his full plate into the microwave.

"I guess. They're locals, and MSF pays them pretty good. It's not everyday, though. We have a lot of local stuff stocked in the fridge, and we get some shipments in, but those are months apart. Sometimes one of us cooks for the group. There's a schedule on the wall somewhere in here," Dr. Palmer finished, pointed in the general direction of the door. Whilst he waited for the food to finish, John glanced at the list.

"There's too many schedules," he muttered, "Too much to remember." The American laughed.

"Tell me about it," he said, handing the platter off to one of the lab technicians. John nodded his hello and carried his plate over to the table, returning to fix himself a mug of coffee. He didn't notice the logistician until he nearly walked into him.

Jim feigned surprise and gave the doctor a moment to recover.

"How've you and Sherlock been getting on?" he inquired innocently, picking up a mug. John paused for a moment before he strode over to a table.

"We haven't met," he said, sitting down.

"Well, lucky you," Moriarty drawled, reclining against the counter.

"Who are you talking about?" the American asked, mouth full. Swallowing his disgust, Jim fleetingly attempted to recall his name. Doctor something or other..it didn't matter, really. He sat himself down at their table, noting that Dr. Watson had already developed some sort of aversion to him. At least he wasn't stupid. Dull at times, perhaps, but not stupid.

"Sherlock Holmes," Jim responded.

"I don't understand," John started, putting down his fork, "What all of the fuss is about." He stopped. "What does he do, anyway?" The American laughed.

"You have to room with Holmes? Good luck!"

"He works in finance," Moriarty told him, working his voice to a tone of false awe, "He's some sort of genius with numbers and the like."

"He'd better be good at something, with that attitude of his," the American said lowly.

"He can't be that terrible," Dr. Watson broke in.

"Haven't you ever heard - no, I suppose you haven't," Jim trailed provocatively, making moves as if to leave. He counted in his head. Three, two o-

"Well, hold on, what haven't I heard?"

"How he ended up here."

"International incident or something, right?" the American interrupted. He was ignored.

"It isn't my place to tell," Moriarty murmured.

"Well go on, you'll have to tell me now. I'm the one who's got to room with him." It was below him, really. Spreading rumors. But it wasn't a rumor if it was true, now was it? Jim took a deep breath.

"I suppose we're not to speak of it, so don't tell anyone else. Comprendre?" he lowered his voice, "He worked as an economic specialist or something like that for the financial institutions. You know, the big ones. About six or seven months ago, the company he was working with met with the president of some country or the other, it's not important. It would have been one of the biggest investment deals the country had ever seen." He paused, savoring the way he had managed to get both doctors hanging onto every word that he spoke. He picked up his coffee and took a sip.

"Then what?' John questioned, pushing his plate away.

"Well then Sherlock Holmes strolled right into the meeting, walked up to the president, and announced, in everyone's earshot, mind you, that the president was a murderer." John snorted.

"I don't believe it." Moriarty shrugged.

"I'm simply telling you what I know. He was rushed out of the meeting, an investigation began, and his brother Mycroft sent him here to lay low until it blows over." Dr. Watson picked up his fork again and returned to his food.

"It's ridiculous. But you're a great story-teller, I'll give you that much." Jim got up as his hand radio went off.

"Be careful," he warned, turning to go, "The man's a terror." Brilliant, Sherlock was, but a terror to those unaccustomed. And if he didn't speak with the doctor soon, Jim would just have to take it upon himself to make sure that they did. His mind was brimming with new ideas, but none of them would be any fun without the devil and his doctor. Without Sherlock, Moriarty was unstoppable, and really, how boring was that?

September 19th, 2012

Sherlock is still nowhere to be found. He's such a mystery that it all has to be a joke. Honestly, how can one man be so shrouded in shadows on a volunteer trip? They make him out to be some sort of devil. I would judge for myself, but that's hard to do, given his constant absence. The logistician, (Jim, I think), told me a wonderful tale today about how Sherlock came to be here. Something fantastic about a president and a banking firm and a murder? I don't believe it for one second. I'll have to speak to him for myself. Or Greg Lestrade, he seems to know. The Sherlock business aside, I was rather hoping that I would come into a wayward box of tea today, but it seems the building doesn't stock it very often. Unfortunate, really. I suppose I'll have to manage with coffee. Well, I'm rambling, now aren't I? This isn't quite what Dr. Thompson had in mind. I'd better get off to sleep now, call time tomorrow is five A.M.