A/N: Characters aren't mine.
Beta: Allie Clark
Greg Lestrade was a little more than frustrated as he mounted the stairs to the science lab. The supplies reports had been due the day before, and he'd gotten word that they hadn't been received. He rapped on the door and took a step back, waiting for Sherlock to come to the door. He didn't.
"Sherlock, I don't have time for this. Open the door." There was silence. Greg ground his teeth in poorly contained anger. He could be so impossible, Sherlock. Digging into his pocket, Lestrade withdrew the key and unlocked the door, pushing it open without stepping inside.
"Sherlock. I need your reports." This wasn't even his job, checking up on him to make sure he got done what he needed to do. It was ridiculous, the fact that Greg had to look after Sherlock as he would a child. But he had promised Mycroft, and promises of that sort weren't easily broken. Sherlock appeared moments later, goggles balanced precariously in the tangle of his midnight hair.
"What is it? I'm working on-"
"Your reports." No recognition flashed in his eyes, and Lestrade tried again.
"The expense reports? You were supposed to have given them to Amy yesterday." Sherlock stepped outside and closed the door to the lab, removing his gloves and goggles.
"I did finish them." He stopped. "Moriarty." Greg suppressed a sigh. The two of them regularly went at it as if there was nothing better to do in the world. Getting them to work together was a task that no one, much less Gregory Lestrade, was properly trained to do.
"Don't give me some ruddy nonsense about how he's stolen them or something equally outlandish, I won't have it." They exited the building and climbed into the idling Jimny, Sherlock enormously miffed by the senseless distraction. He would prove to Lestrade that he wasn't in possession of the paperwork, and then he would kick him out. The issue of having Greg breathing down his neck was generally resolved by a good door slam, but with the way Lestrade had been behaving, Sherlock suspected that, subsequently, there would be no door for him to slam after that. It was a minor price to pay for privacy. And civility, something that his brother had been attempting to cram down his throat from the time that they were children.
"Don't be foolish, Lestrade, of course he hasn't stolen them. I gave them to him a week ago to sign. It isn't my fault that they haven't come back yet." It was like dealing with children. When the car arrived at the financial building, Amy was already waiting outside. Young and mousy, she had served as MSF's secretary for nearly ten months. She averted her eyes as Sherlock unlocked the door and strode in, immediately inspecting the desk.
"I need your reports, Mr. Holmes," she said quietly, standing by the door. Sherlock ignored her and sat down.
"He broke in," he said simply.
"And why would he have done that?" Greg asked, already exasperated.
"Because he's bored. He likes making trouble and watching everyone scramble about like they've lost their senses. I don't have the-"
"They're right there," Amy said, pointing to a wayward folder sticking out of the trash bin. Lestrade went to retrieve the papers. He spoke as he flipped through.
"These are the reports. You haven't signed them, Sherlock. He has, though." Sherlock snatched the folder away and paged through it, laughing bitterly. Snatching a pen from the desk, he quickly initialed every page and held the packet out to Amy without looking at her. She glanced at him, hard, and then turned to leave.
"This isn't a game, Mr. Holmes," she told him, an uncharacteristic edge finding its way into her voice, "These people depend on us." With that, she was gone. Lestrade took a seat in front of the desk. Sherlock spun himself round on the desk chair as he looked up at the ceiling.
"You told me that you signed the papers," Greg said, watching him. Sherlock didn't stop, nor did he respond.
"She's right. This isn't a game," Lestrade added.
"Don't be childish," Sherlock snorted.
"What do you think I'm dealing with?" Silence, save for the squeak of the chair as it continued to go round. Then:
"Believe what you want. I signed those papers. Moriarty's playing some game or the other, and really, I've no interest. It's boring," he muttered, stopping at last, "Absolutely, utterly boring."
John returned from lunch with Radeyah at his side. He'd wanted to visit a few of his regular patients before he started with the new ones. He nodded his hello to a few volunteers that he had come to know over the past couple of days. There was Darya, a veteran nurse from Russia, and Sofia, a first-time doctor from Spain. He'd come to know others as well, but he didn't see them as much as he would have liked due to his schedule. Thinking of his schedule got him to thinking about Molly, and how he hadn't seen very much of her recently. It had a lot to do with the fact that the TFC and the Mental Health Facility being housed in separate buildings, he knew. It still would have been nice to talk; she was really such a lovely girl.
He picked Zuhayr out of the crowd and waved, finding himself smiling. He had improved quickly and had been placed on the homecare programme. John was glad to see that he was doing so well.
"Comment vous sentez-vous?" he asked through Radeyah, How are you feeling?
"Bon. Comment êtes-vous?" Radeyah translated, Good, and you? John grinned and sat down beside him.
"Donc, poli. Je suis bien, je vous remercie. Tout ce mal?" he asked, So polite. I'm well, thank you. Does anything hurt? The answer was no, and he gave Zuhayr a quick check-up.
"Votre fils est l'amélioration. Ramenez-la semaine prochaine," Dr. Watson told Zuhayr's mother, Your son is improving. Bring him back next week. He stayed a moment longer before going to pull another patient. Noting the number of people standing in line, he moved quickly. The peak of the dry season was quickly approaching, as he'd been told, and the malnutrition cases were getting worse. John managed a respectful 'hello, how are you' in Arabic, but he relied on Radeyah for the rest. He was learning. It was taking a long time, but he was learning. John was pleased to see that Karif, the new toddler that he was working with, was doing better than most of the children he'd seen since he'd been in Chad. His measurements and check-up went well, and John placed him into the Supplementary Feeding Centre immediately.
"C'est une bonne chose," he explained to the boy's mother, This is good. He relayed how the program worked in as few words as possible. Every two weeks, Karif would need to come back for another check up and a ration of unimix. The mix was to be used in porridge for the entire family, and it would boost vitamin levels. He gave Karif a shot, and then gave his mother her unimix. She thanked him warmly, and he offered a smile in return, ready to move on. He was beginning to enjoy his work.
"...from Jim, and he said that he'd given them to Sherlock-" Hearing his name, Moriarty took a few steps backward and hung around the corner, out of sight. He'd become so uninterested with life that he'd taken up causing minor trouble. Just confusion, nothing special. Nothing important; not yet, anyway. No, he would wait for the proper time for all that he had planned. He gave a casual look at the small gathering. The secretary that had come to see him that morning, Amy, was speaking with two nurses and that stupid American who had taken lunch with Dr. Watson all those days ago. Pleased, he concealed himself again to listen.
"Would you believe that Sherlock tossed them into the trash? He tried to blame Jim. It's just horrible. If he isn't responsible, then he shouldn't be here," Amy said, hushed. The nurses murmured their assent. Jim smiled and strolled away. Sure, it was only minor trouble now. But wasn't that how it started? All that it takes is one. One rumor, one comment, one person. And then it begins.
Molly Hooper rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms, attempting in vain to rid herself of the images. The scars, the bruises, the pain that these women had gone through. And it wasn't simply women; there were men as well. Not as many, perhaps, but enough. They had gone through the same things that the women had endured, maybe more. She couldn't begin to make herself understand what life had to be like for these people. Coming to the Mental Health Facility was a risk for everyone who made it to see her, and she knew it. If their husbands, brothers, fathers found out... It would have been a disgrace upon the family, and as she had seen, the people took the law very literally into their own hands. Her patients were undeniably brave, and she was constantly in awe of them for that. It was herself that she was upset with. She could barely make it through more than four sessions before she had to excuse herself. She usually journeyed to her closet, the place where she was resting now. Somehow it was worse, hearing their stories in another person's voice. If they had the courage to speak, she should have had the ability to listen.
Molly'd thought that she had been ready when she had applied. After all, she'd been working as a psychiatrist for more than four years, and she'd seen everything. Or so she had thought. But then she had come to Chad, and she had seen and heard the unimaginable. It chilled her beyond warmth, and somehow, she was grateful. She was still human. It was the day when she stopped feeling that it would all begin to come apart. She shoved up from the ground and paced in small, tight circles. She'd come across the closet in one of her post-session travels, and it had become her safe haven. It was dim, tiny, and hidden away. It suited her, really. She was there now, knowing that Adnan would come for her soon. Molly wished that he wouldn't; she really wasn't up to it. No amount of coffee seemed to replace the sleep that she had lost trying to sort through the muddled confusion that had become her mind. Sure enough, she recognized his voice as he called her name. She took a deep breath, held it, and then opened the door. She wasn't ready, but she wouldn't let them see.
Sherlock had stopped into his room to grab something when he heard the door close behind him.
"Moriarty," he said, straightening. He'd heard it in his footsteps. There was a pause before the Irishman spoke.
"Hello, Sherlock." He turned around and glanced, indifferent, at the shorter man.
"You certainty had your fun this morning, didn't you?" Sherlock said quietly, "Bored, are we?" Jim flopped down on John's bed and closed his eyes.
"You won't believe how frightfully dull these people are! Tell me, how am I to have my fun when there's simply no challenge?" he opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, "No challenge at all." Sherlock had always thought Jim to be something of a reptile, with his cold, hard eyes. He was supposed that Jim's heart was as cold as his eyes, but really, so was his own. Or so he had been told. What he had yet to deduce was the true reason Moriarty had come to Africa. He loved power; Sherlock had picked up on that from the moment that they had met. He loved controlling people, loved the ability to force people to do as he wished without them realizing it. He had been something of a terror in London, albeit an invisible one. All of these things he could tell by studying his face and the way that he carried himself.
"I'm afraid I can't help you," Sherlock announced, pocketing what he had come for. Jim sat up, knocking John's journal from the bed. He paid it no mind and looked gleefully up at the taller man instead.
"But you will."
"Your idle threats mean nothing, Moriarty." And they didn't; never had. They'd had their battles in the past, and they had almost always ended in an indignant stalemate. It was impossible for one to win if both are constantly a step ahead of the other. And that was how they had been since their first meeting. Always striving to be one step ahead. The reason nothing notable had ever occurred, he thought, was because the stakes were too low. This wasn't Sherlock's country; these weren't his people, and he had no friends here. No friends beside Lestrade, but he was safe enough thanks to Mycroft. The stray idea that Jim might use Dr. Watson as a bargaining chip came to his mind, and he hung onto the thought for a moment before he released it. It was simpler to not have friends.
Moriarty shrugged and stood, casually flipping through John's journal. Sherlock knew Jim's game well. He'd tire of waiting, start some scare, rumor, or the other, and sit back and watch the confusion. Then he would tire of that as well, and he'd come to Sherlock with cryptic hints and riddles that led him on a scavenger hunt to absolutely nowhere. And then it would begin again. Occasionally, they had deviated from this pattern, and Sherlock had been forced to save a life or two. Life meant nothing to Jim. Nothing at all. But this time was different. This time, there was some sort of real threat, though he didn't yet know what it was. Moriarty didn't have the slightest clue yet, either, but they both knew that it was coming.
"You and John are my last hope for fun, Sherlock," Moriarty told him, tossing the journal across the room with a casual flick of the wrist, "Be a good sport and play along when the time comes. I can't stand to be among such ordinary people."
By some odd stroke of luck, John had managed to catch up with Molly and Dr. Crane for dinner. He'd gotten a glimpse of Ira as well, though he seemed to have lost track of him at the moment. Using her position to their collective advantage, Dr. Crane had gotten them use of a private room for dinner. Molly slid into her seat beside John and smiled tightly, keeping her head down. Ira wandered in, looking confused as usual. Dr. Crane bowed her head and murmured a prayer in Arabic, and then everyone began to eat. John waited for the plate to be passed his way, and smiled at Molly.
"How've you been getting on?" She looked up and hesitated, as if she wasn't quite sure what he wanted to her to say. Finally, she sighed in defeat and offered a tired smile.
"It's...hard," she admitted quietly, her usual fight gone out of her. John could only imagine what she was going through, being a psychiatrist. Though he didn't work directly with the abuse victims, he'd seen and heard enough. Again, his heart ached for the people forced the live in such terrible conditions. No one deserved this.
"I heard that Sherlock tossed Jim's reports in the trash today and tried to blame him for losing them," a nurse commented. John made a face. Was Sherlock Holmes their conversation starter, then?
"I heard that too! From Amy, right?"
"John, how's Sherlock?" Ira cut in, obviously impatient, as the food hadn't quite reached him yet. John shrugged.
"I still haven't met him." Dr. Crane put her fork down and frowned.
"You haven't met your roommate yet? How?"
"It's Sherlock Holmes," a nurse whispered, grimacing.
"You'd be better off not meeting him," another said.
"He'll do that weird-ass deduction thing on you, and you'll never be able to show your face again. You heard the story," Ira added, giving Dr. Watson a knowing glance. Dr. Crane rolled her eyes.
"Don't listen to whatever they tell you. They make him out to be a villain, but he's not. He's just... misunderstood," she assured John, grinning. He took this into consideration. How he had yet to meet his roommate was beyond him. As he accepted the plate, he promised himself that he'd hunt down this Sherlock Holmes, tonight, and see what all of the fuss was about.
By the time dinner was finished and the plates washed, John was exactly five degrees past absolutely exhausted. He gave a general goodnight and climbed the stairs to his room, quest forgotten. He yawned and stretched, allowing his eyes to fall closed for just a moment. And in that moment, as was his luck, he collided with someone else. His eyes flew open as he reached to steady her.
"Right, sorry," he muttered, flustered. She re-adjusted her ponytail and gave him a friendly look.
"It's alright. It does help to walk around with your eyes open, though." He smiled, pleased to see that she was English. And quite pretty, he musn't forget that.
"John Watson," he said, offering his hand. She took it and grinned.
"Sarah Sawyer. " Suddenly, she seemed familiar to him. He tried to place her name and face with the MSF staff he saw every day.
"You're a doctor, aren't you?" he burst out suddenly. She nodded, slipping her hands into her side pockets.
"At the clinic, most of the time. Sometimes I volunteer at the TFC when you're under-staffed." John sighed in exasperation.
"Which is every day now," he muttered. Sarah chewed her lip for a moment.
"I guess that means we'll be seeing a good amount of each other, yeah?" she beamed, turning to go. John looked after her, bemused.
"Yeah," he said quietly. But she was already gone.
September 30, 2012
I just may fall asleep as I'm writing this. I'm tired beyond belief, which seems absolutely incredible to me. Today hasn't even been the most challenging. More pressing than usual, yeah, but nothing that I can't handle. Or so I hope, anyway. The climax of the dry season is coming up, and Dr. Crane has warned us all about how bad it will be. She's already told us that she expects two out of every twenty-five children that come into the centre to die. Each day. Luckily, no one has died under my watch, and I expect to keep it that way. It's terrifying, work here. It isn't the first time I've played doctor, but it feels as if it's the first time that I've played God. The stakes are higher here, higher than they had ever been at war. Because at war, I dealt with grown men. Broken, wounded men, but grown men nonetheless. They were able to defend themselves when the need arose. But when I deal with the children here... they're utterly defenseless, and I've come to realize just how much they depend on MSF to save them. They cannot save themselves.
Sherlock's still been absent, and I've arrived at the point where I don't really care anymore. I told myself that I was going to find him tonight, but I'd forgotten when I ran into Sarah in the hall. She's something, Sarah. She says she'll see me again. I'll make sure of it.