Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss

The Good Doctor
Chapter 2

Memories

"Clear!" John yelled for the second time as he held the defibrillators from the crash trolley (crash cart), ready to jumpstart his patient's heart which had just flatlined. She had been in a car that had been T-boned by a truck in an intersection and was rushed into the centre, bloody and clinging onto life. The assisting nurses and doctors all held their hands up. He shocked the area near her upper left chest and her lower right rib. "Come on, don't do this!" John muttered.

Her body heaved upwards, but her heart gave no response.

"Raise the charge!" he yelled. One of the nurses immediately turned the dial up on the manual defibrillator.

"Clear!" he yelled again, repeating his actions.

No response.

"Again!" he ordered, and tried once more.

Still no response.

"Doctor Watson, I don't think..." a nurse by the door began.

John tiredly looked up at the clock, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his yellow static-resistant gown's right sleeve.

"Time of death, 22:23. Contact her next of kin."

Andrew silently handed over a cup of tea to console the exhausted doctor who gladly accepted it. They sat on a bench in the hospital's lobby, not really saying a word as the hospital went about its hustle and bustle. John really needed a break. The patient that died just a few moments ago was the fourth one that night.

"Doctor Watson, I think you should take the night off," the intern suggested. John was thinking of taking off anyway as it was evident that he was bordering complete exhaustion. If he worked any longer, he could become a liability.

"Yes, i think you're right. Any more of this and I may have to check into the hospital as a patient myself," he tiredly joked. He took a sip of the warm earl grey tea and closed his eyes which were encased in dark circles due to lack of sleep. Luckily, he hadn't been hired for anything tonight. Otherwise, he would have to call in sick tomorrow. Actually, that's not such a bad idea, he thought. His double life was taking its toll, but he didn't mind. Not at all.

xxxx

After leaving Andrew, John went to change out of his scrubs when someone entered the room.

"Oh hey, John. Leaving already?" Doctor Wyatt, head of neurology asked. John looked up.

"Hm? Oh yeah. It's been hectic today," he replied as Roger began to change into his normal clothes as well. The army veteran finished putting on his pants, grabbed his wallet, and started shoving it in his pocket when his coworker asked, "Fancy grabbing a pint at Pete's Bar? Alice and Dom are going."

John shook his head while giving a slight chuckle. "No, thank you. I don't think my body can handle another night out," he responded.

Wyatt smirked. "You must be getting out there, aren't you Watson? Haven't had a night out with your fellow doctors in a while, yet you're tired all the time. Lucky gals." He winked and grabbed his things, leaving John with a slight face of disbelief. Is that what his coworkers thought he was doing? He laughed and proceeded to collect this things, walked out, hailed down a taxi, and tried very hard not to fall asleep en route.

Running out of energy, the blond entered his small flat after fumbling with his keys and immediately plopped himself on his uncomfortable bed, foregoing changing into comfortable clothes. Tonight was a free night. He didn't have anything to do, which he was grateful for. He sighed as he stared up at the ceiling, laying in silence as the drone of the fan above his head mesmerized him. There was a slight hitch in the fan as the blades spun around and around; his eyelids felt heavy...

"Captain! John! Grab my hand!" a voice said above him. John was disoriented. The last thing he remembered was covering for a soldier when he felt an immense pain tear through his shoulder. He grunted in pain and raised his arm, feeling something wet and warm spread as someone tugged his good arm a few times and finally dragged him away from the battleground just as a bomb exploded near the vicinity, showering them with dirt.

"Damn it, Watson, don't do this!" the voice said above all the noisy bullets as John's head lolled around slightly, his consciousness beginning to fade. He couldn't see who it was as his vision was beginning to blur. He heard something rip, then winced as the soldier tied a piece of cloth very tightly around his bullet wound. "Get up!" the man ordered him. The doctor couldn't think straight and blindly attempted to follow what the man was saying to him. He staggered onto his feet and was led away, leaning on his savior.

John awoke, gasping for air. His eyes teared up and he abruptly sat up to grasp his leg. It felt like someone had stabbed him and the scar on his shoulder began to burn; the pain was unbearable. He looked around for the painkillers he hadn't used and attempted to locate them without success. He then awkwardly slid his leg off the bed and stumbled a bit as his other foot hit the ground. "Where are you..." he muttered as he hurriedly opened the drawer on the nightstand next to his bed in the dark and blindly shuffled through all the junk he kept there. He threw out an empty bottle over his shoulder, found another one, and shook it. It was empty. He knew he had at least a couple more pills somewhere. It had been a while since he needed it, but it was urgent as the pain was increasing with each second. His fingertips grazed another cylindrical bottle and he grabbed it. Much to his satisfaction, he heard a slight rattle as he lifted it, indicating that there was something left. He hastily opened it, poured it in his hand, and dry-swallowed a single pill.

He fell backwards onto his bed with his arm still extended down to rest upon his leg and closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing to take his mind off the pain. After a few minutes, he slowly opened them and stared at the ceiling above him once again. The blades of the fan continued to whir as if nothing had happened. He hated when he dreamt of the war. The things he saw were things that no human should ever be allowed to witness. As a soldier and a doctor, John saw more horrifying things than he should have. He wasn't proud of some of the things he had to do while serving...which made his work all the more important.

It was his chance for redemption.

"Sherlock," Mycroft greeted his younger brother who sat across from him, holding his violin and absentmindedly strumming it as a warm fire crackled behind the older Holmes sibling.

"Mycroft," he replied with a nod.

"So, little brother, have you found a flat yet?" he asked.

Sherlock continued to stare into space. "No. Mycroft, do skip the small talk and get to the point. Surely there must be a reason for you visit other than inquiring about my domestic situation," he said.

Mycroft frowned. "Just visiting, Sherlock. Must I have an ulterior motive?" He glanced around the small flat his brother was currently inhabiting alone. There were countless books, beakers, bottles of chemicals, and documents strewn all over the floor and desks. There was a small model skull lying abandoned on the floor. "Although, I must say, you could do with a bit of cleaning up."

Sherlock shifted his eyes towards his older brother. "If you're here because of my consulting work on the recent string of so called 'vigilante' acts, I have nothing to tell you," he stated.

"No need to be curt. By the way, have you finished working the Remington case?"

The younger Holmes scoffed. "It's obvious the maid did it."

"Mm, yes, of course. Quite obvious. Would take a fool not to realize," his brother replied as Sherlock absently nodded in agreement. The case had completely flown over Lestrade's head, but with one swift look at the crime scene and a few minutes speaking with each family member and employee, the younger Holmes quickly realized the maid had murdered Sir Remington. Mycroft, on the other hand, was sharper than Sherlock, but refused to do the legwork to back up his deductions, unlike his younger sibling.

"I would advise you to find a place quickly, Sherlock. Living alone is not doing you any good. And your flat is far from St. Bart's," the older Holmes said in a concerned tone. Sherlock stared at the burning logs ahead, not giving a reply.

"Who would want me as a flatmate?" he asked.

Somewhere in Sunbury, a lone man sat on the edge of his bed, staring emptily out the window as the faint moonlight streamed through his bedroom, encasing him in a cold glow of light. He held his phone in his lifeless hand, ignoring the continuous dialling tone. It had been thirty minutes since he received the call. After a moment's pause, he choked back a sob. Tears began to stream down his face.

His wife was dead.

His wife was murdered.

John sat at his kitchen table, eating a bit of toast and jam. He called in sick that morning because frankly, he just didn't feel like going into work. He lied and said he caught the flu, when in reality, he was perfectly fine, minus the waves of pain in his leg. It had dulled down quite a bit from yesterday night, but he still had to pop a pill every now and then to keep from going insane, although luckily, the pain in his shoulder had stopped. For once in about a month, he actually got to sleep in until noon. He lazed around for hours until he became a bit peckish and decided it was time to eat.

He picked up the paper that had arrived that morning and scanned the front page. There, in the center, was a picture of a lanky fellow with the most unruly mop of dark curls he had ever seen that looked like it was snapped at the very last minute. The man in the photograph appeared to have been taking great lengths to avoid the camera. He scanned the article, something about solving a murder or something of the sort, lost interest, and turned directly to the classified ads.

"'D'..." he muttered while scanning the ads. "Ah, there we are." John found a small advertisement under 'Doctor Wanted'. The ad contained nothing more than an email address the statement. "Need help".

He immediately opened his laptop which was situated on the table before him, and began to send an untraceable email to the address listed. He had picked up a few tricks along the way, even though he really wasn't tech-savvy. His typing speed was atrocious, but he knew how to make himself untraceable and was able to bury any electronic trail. As for his senders, well, they may not have the knowledge to use a disposable email, but it didn't matter because he was able to disguise his IP address and all information related to one John H. Watson. It wasn't his problem if his client got caught hiring a mercenary.

'There are three barrels of wine' he sent. Now, all he had to do was wait for a reply.

He continued to flip through the paper and stopped on a short article that caught his titled 'Britain in Chaos'. He quickly read through it and started laughing. Apparently, according to the columnist, Britain was in chaos because of John:

"With the actions of an unknown person performing illegal acts, one must wonder where the law resides with these recent acts of illegal deeds brought to light by this so called, 'vigilante'. Is the evidence suitable to convict someone or press charges if all pieces of evidence were discovered and publicized by another illegal act? Surely the trail that the evidence leaves could very well be tampered with. Two wrongs certainly don't make a right. Perhaps these bad citizens are merely framed for something worse. Politicians, students, normal citizens being accused of such atrocities in which the public gives faith to an unknown person. Something is not right. Who is this 'vigilante' to play God? One person cannot be responsible for serving justice..."

The article went on and on, causing the doctor to snort. Was this columnist serious?

Suddenly, his phone rang, startling him. He looked at the screen and rolled his eyes.

"Hello?"

"Johnny~!" the voice slurred. "H-how have you been, dear brother? Long time no see or talk! Dooo you hate me?"

John furrowed his brows and looked at his watch. It was only 4 o'clock in the afternoon.

"Harry, have you been drinking?" he asked exasperatedly.

His older sister giggled. "Yeaahh. It's just that, you know, it's so boring," she complained.

Her younger brother sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Stop drinking, Harry. You have a problem." He was getting concerned as her drinking was definitely getting out of hand.

"Nooo..." she drawled on. "Listen, little brother, life's hard. It's-it's soo hard," she rambled on.

"Harry, stop drunk dialing me. I'm hanging up," he said, ending the conversation in the middle of her sentence. He sighed. He had wished Harry would stop drinking so much, but now, he wished that she gave up, maybe attend one of those alcoholic meetings.

John absentmindedly flipped through the paper for a few more minutes until a small email notification popped up on his screen. The person who sent the ad had replied.

"Two are rotten and one is made of gold," it read.

Good. A new client, John thought.

"2am. Birmingham. Wendy's Bar. Keep checking email. Meeting place will be moved," he typed and clicked send.

A/N:

Hello hello! Sorry for the late update! My modem decided to die, so we had to go out and buy another one. =_=
This was supposed to be submitted yesterday, but I just finished writing it because my internet is stupid and I write everything on google docs. It's super convenient. I write all my class notes there too. I can switch computers without having to email my stuff or use a usb. Well, I guess not so convenient when your internet is unavailable. haha!

Man, when I upload the chapters on here, they seem so short, but when I'm writing it, it seems so dreadfully long.
What do you guys think, write longer chapters? Cause I can if that's what you want! :)

I know nothing really happened in this chapter, but I'm trying to build up the background.
Ooh you guys should be so excited. I have a lot of plans for a couple characters that are getting me excited, so stay tuned!

Also, bear with me. I don't really know much medical jargon, so I'm doing my best to research.
I know in the beginning, the charge is dealing with joules, but I'm not sure how much it should be in this particular situation, so I left it vague. It should be at least 200.
Darn you, John, with your medical knowledge that I don't know.

Also, this is turning out to be more John-centric in the beginning because...well, it's 'The Good Doctor'. Lol
But later, I will add Sherlock's inner dialogue when appropriate.

Once again,
Thank you for reading! :)