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He does better than he would have expected for the first few hours of his day. One of the perks of going back to work was the distraction; primarily from Sherlock, but today from...what he wasn't going to think about.
It was a nice surgery – much busier than Sarah's, and he would be eternally grateful for her kind but fallacious reference for him, with a predominantly old clientele which made a relaxing change from the criminals of greater London who he dealt with at night.
Today he had seen a gentleman with piles, a lady with earache and a toddler with an upset stomach; all treatable, nothing sinister, and all of them had left with a grateful smile and a thank you. Call him needy, but he did enjoy having some recognition from time to time.
One more patient before lunch, he decides, looking at the clock behind his desk and steadfastly ignoring the stiffness in his back. He presses the buzzer to call the next patient in and indulges himself in a stretch, roughly pressing his fingers into his shoulder to try and ease the ache, rounding his back and feeling the vertebrae crack refreshingly.
There is a quiet tap at the door and he straightens up, sliding a smile onto his face.
"Come in."
The girl is relatively young and everything about her screams unease. He knows he shouldn't do it, but he can tell already what the consultation will be. Morning after pill, pregnancy test, contraception advice. No other reason (he ignores his inner voice telling him he is starting to think like Sherlock) for a girl this young to have a midday appointment without a parental figure and to be looking so anxious; her fingers twist in her hair and she chews her lip periodically.
John gestures towards the chair and leans back, trying to make his body language less threatening.
"I'm Dr Watson" he says calmly, holding out a hand which she shakes, palm cool and damp, "What can I do for you?"
She clasps her hands in front of her, hair hanging down over her face though not enough to disguise the dark circles under her eyes.
"I, um, had sex with a guy last night. It's not the kind of thing I usually do, y'know? And I was drunk and he was drunk and we just didn't think…"
'And I need the morning after pill/a pregnancy test' John filled in mentally, stopping his hand from twitching towards the prescription pad.
"I think I might have HIV" she says, so quietly that he almost doesn't hear her, and when the jumble of sounds rearrange themselves and drop into place in his mind he honestly thinks he's going to pass out. His vision swims and blurs and he wonders how he, a trained doctor, can possibly have been so fucking stupid.
"Okay" he says, and hears the words as though from underwater, "Well let's get that sorted out.
He reassures her as best he can that they won't find anything for at least a couple of months, gives her a PEP pack and books her in for an appointment and some counselling. Then he does what would get him struck off the register if anyone were to find out about it (which they won't; living with Sherlock for this long has taught him at least basic skills of deception) and fills out a prescription for a fake patient for another PEP pack and tucks it in his suitcase.
His eyes feel sore and tired, his head throbs, his arse throbs. His stomach spikes with what is almost undoubtedly psychosomatic pain although might be lack of food. The bruises on his wrists jar every time he moves. He doesn't want to be here any more, though he barely knows where would be better.
In his lunch break he walks briskly to a chemist far enough away that they won't know him by face or name, keeping his chin down just to be safe, and waits in a hard backed chair while the counter assistants bustle around behind the partition.
When the pharmacist comes out with the paper bag of drugs, he's never felt so judged in his life. He keeps his head down and nods and makes sounds of affirmation in the right place as the pharmacist talks him through the side effects and offers him sensitive information on safe sex, and flees the shop as soon as he can.
He wakes up the next morning in agony, his stomach clenching and cramping and his head pounding. He can feel from the buzzing in his ears that he's going to vomit but knows he won't make it to the bathroom, and hunches over his bin instead, his shoulder throbbing in time with his head.
Sherlock must be out – he would have heard John retching if he was in, which is of some consolation.
Eventually the nausea fades although the stomach cramps and headache persist, and John allows himself to slump back into his bed, too exhausted to hunt for water or toothpaste or anything else that would probably make him feel more human.
His eyes slip closed – just for a few moments, he tells himself, then he'll get up – and before he knows what's happening reality has folded blissfully in on itself and he is floating away into unconsciousness.
Next chapter: John wakes up to an unexpected visitor.