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

The Good Doctor
Chapter 6

Tracks

A lone man limped down the short corridor of his flat, suppressing a grimace as he rubbed his shoulder and held his leg as he made his way towards the storage closet. He skipped work that day due to personal issues he'd rather not discuss with the chief, but since the man liked John, he always got away with it. Besides, if they ever needed him (which wasn't quite as often as one would think due to the small nature of the hospital he currently worked at), they could always call or page. The weather was making his old wounds act up; they were rather painful, but it was a weird kind of pain. Not quite painful, but numb and a bit tingly. Stranger yet, he could never remember how he got injured in the leg.

"Where are you?" the man muttered aloud as he rummaged through old rubbish.

John H. Watson, M.D. (also a mercenary by night) was currently shuffling through the junk he kept in his closet, tossing them over his shoulder and not giving them a second glance. After all, they were only obstacles to his goal.

"Where is my bloody cane?" he asked no one under his breath as he opened up a dusty old chest he forgot he had and sat on the floor to dig through it. Unfortunately, the blond mercenary was the type of person who got a bit distracted when coming across miscellaneous objects he hadn't seen in a long time.

"My old walkman!" he said excitedly. What a nostalgic object to come across. He sifted through the other things and discovered an old family album. Funny the things people kept. Photographs were snippets of moments in time, but John preferred to live in the moment rather than reminisce, but that didn't mean he didn't on occasion. He laughed as he opened the album up to a rather unflattering photograph of his dear sister Harriet. She had taken it upon herself to play hairdresser and after a bout with a pair of scissors, ended up with an asymmetrically short hairdo. John was too young to remember, but she cut his hair too, much to their mother's chagrin.

Looking at pictures of his family made the doctor feel guilty. When was the last time he had spoken to his mother? His father? Christmas cards and calls, New Year wishes over the telephone, never quite meeting in person. How about his sister, Harry? Oh yes. The last time they spoke was when she called him, pissed drunk. He worried for her as her drinking was becoming a bit of a problem. It had been for a while now.

John set the album down. He needed to find that blasted cane. When had he purchased it? Perhaps it was shortly after his time as a Captain in the military. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, to be exact.

He suddenly stopped what he was doing and his body went rigid as his mind raced through memories he'd rather forget. John uselessly shut his eyes in a futile attempt to shut the memories out. The things he witnessed; the things he did to save lives. Nobody warned him how much horror he'd see just being a doctor when he signed up. He had a nagging suspicion that he was forgetting something important though.

The doctor shifted his eyes back down towards the chest and focused on a thin, long piece of wood. His cane. He reached in and tugged it out.

The cane was a nice dark cherry wood color, polished pristinely even after all these years. John grabbed his shirt and wiped it down, sliding the cloth he wore down the sturdy cane. Letting go of his now-dirty shirt, he absentmindedly brushed it off and wrapped his hand around the contours of the handle which reminded him of a bird's beak. He leaned on it, letting the cane lift the weight off of his pained leg.

Relief.

The cane felt right like he had been missing it all these years, yet at the same time, it felt awkward. He didn't like to admit it, but before he began his mercenary work, John was very dependent on the cane and used it to walk around every day. Sometimes he'd have a relapse, like today, and required additional assistance in the mere act of walking. Such a pity. Oddly, it was always when the weather was rather overcast and rainy.

The doctor slowly kneeled to the ground and threw everything into the chest whether it was in there to begin with or not, closed the closet door, and limped down the hallway with his long-lost walking cane. He had forgotten to fetch that morning's paper as he was too busy trashing his flat looking for his blasted cane. He ran out of painkillers last week, so this was his last resort. He had illegally obtained the pills by abusing his power as a doctor and had forgotten to refill the bottle. Great.

He hobbled to the door and grabbed the folded paper that was wedged in the mail slot then proceeded to hobble back down to his lounge (living room). John waited until he got to the armchair next to the coffee table and set the cane down, leaning it against the table. He sat in his chair and lifted his feet to rest them on the platform. After settling himself down, he opened the paper and skipped the headline content, deciding to get to that later. He really hoped there was a job because he need one. Now.

To his delight, there was an ad calling for a doctor. Well, technically there were two but one was a real classified advertisement for an actual doctor for hire in house-call cases and then there was his signature 'bat signal'. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

A new client meant work to keep his mind off the pain. Excellent timing.

John scanned the room for his laptop and much to his annoyance, concluded that he left it in his room. He absolutely did not wish to get up and walk, but since he was desperate for a job, he did so anyway.

After grumpily retrieving his notebook and sending an email in response-this week's passphrase being 'There are two doors adjacent. One is true and the other is false'-John groaned as his pager went off. Of course. Rainy days meant car accidents.

"I would like to request information about a few advertisements that were run in your paper," a man asked a female worker at The Times. The woman looked up from her magazine and immediately straightened up at the sight of the handsome stranger standing on the other side of the counter.

"Would you, now?" she asked flirtatiously.

Sherlock slightly narrowed his eyes as he furrowed his brows, tilting his head about a millimeter to his left.

"Yes."

The woman leaned her elbow on the counter and nested her face on the palm of her hand.

"My, my, I believe that would cost you your phone number."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. He didn't understand what was happening, and that never happens. He shifted his eyes to read her body language.

Early 30s. Single (no ring, no tan line). Relaxed. Cleavage prominent behind her too-small shirt. Fingernails clean and manicured with 'french nails', or whatever it was called. Makeup: extreme and much too much. Desperate for marriage judging by the mixture of bridal magazines and fashion magazines stacked on the desk behind her. Hair: recently done. Perhaps during her lunch time as the smell of the chemicals salons used to perm hair lingered around her, stronger than would be pertinent if done a day or two ago not to mention short pieces of hair around the top of her shirt by the neck which would happen if hair was cut and fell off onto the shirt after the customer stood up immediately proceeding the act of taking off the drape.

The counter revealed about six inches short of the floor, enabling the consulting detective to observe the scene below. Her feet were slightly restless as she slowly tapped the ground with the toe of one shoe while putting all the weight on the other (he couldn't physically see it, but the shadow and sound suggested it). The woman kept smacking her gum. Mint. It was quite obnoxious, really.

Her pupils were dilated, a sign of physical arousal. Breathing rate accelerated. Cheeks slightly more flushed than before she set eyes on him. She was giving him a rather pained grimace. No, it..was a..smirk?

Oh.

Sherlock had two options. One: play along and work the information out of her using heavy flattery or two: ignore it and attempt to obtain the information out of her with the chance of failure. Manipulation was not easy. Well, perhaps to other people, but not to Sherlock. It was one of the perks of being a high-functioning sociopath.

The younger Holmes immediately gave a fake bright smile.

"I'm afraid the act of providing my number would require the information first, miss," he said pseudo-apologetically, "After all, business before pleasure."

The woman giggled.

"What do you need, sir?" she said in a manner she thought was seductive (but she simply missed the mark).

Sherlock reached into his pocket and fished out a list of all the email addresses he copied from the classified ads. He had asked Lestrade to run them, but they turned out to be expired addresses as Sherlock suspected. Each email address had a rather unspecific and generic user names, uncommon to those who frequently used email. The Inspector had even given him the time and dates of last activity, all of which were quite recently used within the time frame of the creation of the address and the purchase of an ad space at this particular newspaper. Of course, the detective had already scoured the other papers and found no trace of anything fitting the ads in The Times and thusly concluded that this particular newspaper was the conduit in which the man committing the crimes came into contact with requests, most likely with the promise of payment. He came to the company in hopes of finding out if the workers remembered anything about the customers or if he could somehow obtain the addresses and identities (if the clients made a mistake and wrote their true address or paid with a card).

"Could I request a most aesthetically pleasing young woman as yourself with the task of providing information from these specific customers who purchased a spot in the classified ads on these dates?" Sherlock said as he unfolded the list and pointed at the information.

"Oh, I'm sorry but legally, I'm unable to release client information," she responded.

Well at least the woman followed company legalities.

"Did I mention," he peered at her nametag,"Rebecca, that I am a consulting detective working for Scotland Yard?"

She straightened up.

"You're that man in the paper! My friend wrote the article. It's Shirly, something, right?"

Sherlock tried hard not to give a disgusted face at that name. It brought up memories he was rather very not fond of that involved Mycroft and a few obscene classmates respectively.

"The name's Holmes. Sherlock Holmes."

"I thought I recognized you," Rebecca said excitedly. "You know, I rather like detective stories and mysteries. I read the entire Nancy Drew series when I was a young girl."

The detective gave her a smile. Or at least attempted. A few minutes with the woman and he almost wished he had sent Lestrade to do his bidding instead. But definitely not Anderson. Never Anderson.

"I know I don't have an official identification card to present, but I was hoping an intelligent woman like yourself would have a keen sense of judgement and realize I could get the Inspector I am working with to come down here, but that would be a waste of everyone's time and the felon I am pursuing would be that much farther away."

The woman hesitated.

"Well, I did see you in the newspaper...oh, alright. Anything for you, Mr. Holmes," Rebecca said as she winked at Sherlock.

She sat down on the stool placed behind her and proceeded to type in a bunch of information in the computer that was a bit to her left and out of view for the detective. Sherlock waited behind the counter and listened to her fingers tap away at the keys, attempting to drone out the office gossip she was sharing with him. He occasionally nodded to make it seem like he was listening, but the information she was providing him with had no place in his mind palace.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, according to my record, all but one account were paid in cash." She wrote down all the pertinent information (names, numbers, etc) and gave it to him. "And I, uh, hope you don't mention this to my boss?"

Sherlock nodded and smiled. "It'll be our little secret."

The woman exited the appropriate programs and turned her head towards his direction, raising an eyebrow and giving him what she thought was a sultry smile. "How about that phone number?"

Unfortunately, when she had looked up, the detective from the newspaper was already gone.

John, still in his blue scrubs, plopped down on the bed in the on-call room, exhausted from eight straight hours of surgery. Two cars had collided as one car had slid on rainwater and smashed into the other. A woman needed an emergency operation for the steel that was impaling her body. It was extremely risky, but she managed to survive, miraculously as the blond was somewhat used to treating wounds such as hers in his duration in the military. Doctor Watson had checked up on his patient moments before he made a bee-line to the on-call room, foregoing eating for slumber. He was in serious need of sleep to the point where he didn't even mind the scratchy blanket that was currently clawing at his face. He heard a knock on the door and someone opened it, but that was all he remembered before his body gave way to his dreams.

xxx

Running on adrenaline, John dragged the soldier who was trying to save his own life away from the gunfire for hours until he couldn't hear a thing. The sun burned all the soldiers below it, as if it were condemning the events that were unfolding beneath its rays. Everywhere around him, there was nothing but sand and dirt. Not a sign of life anywhere. The soldier continued to scream in agony.

"Shhh! Shhh! We need to be quiet to stay alive!" John panted, attempting to coax the man from crying out in fear insurgents would hear and attack them, but it wouldn't matter anyway because they left a trail of blood. He couldn't tell from whom it was coming, him or the soldier. He was starting to feel dizzy from the loss of blood.

"S-stop. I need to treat your wound," he told the man. He also needed a break.

John set him down and began to assess the wound.

"Take your hand off so I can see what happened," he ordered. The man slowly withdrew his blood-soaked hand away from his left eye.

"Oh God," John whispered. A sharp piece of shrapnel from an exploded armoured vehicle was lodged securely in his eye socket, piercing his eyeball and a good inch or two beneath the bone beneath the socket, tearing through the flesh on the upper portion of his cheekbone. Blood ran down his left eye. The force of the trajectory of the shrapnel most likely enabled the sharp piece of metal to slice through the bone. Luckily, it seemed as if it had stopped piercing his eyeball short of the optic foramen, meaning it was situated solely within the eye and not anywhere near the brain, but there was no way John could salvage the eyeball.

"Help me, please, Watson!" the soldier, slightly older than John, pleaded.

xxx

John snored so loudly he woke himself up. That was definitely not the first time he'd ever done that. Disconcerted, he realized he was half-lying on the floor and half on the bed. His head was using his right arm as a pillow.

Yuck. He had drooled on his arm. John got up and made a move to pick up the blanket to wipe his arm with, but hesitated. His scrubs, or the really scratchy blanket? He shrugged and used his shirt to wipe his arm. He stretched as he yawned, checking the time as he lowered his arm. He wasn't wearing his watch. Oh yes. He was in surgery right before he passed out. He reached down to his waist to check his pager but didn't feel it.

Excellent. It had fallen off somewhere. He looked around him by turning his waist and looking down to his right and found it on the floor. The doctor picked it up and checked it. Nothing. Good. Something caught his eye on the chair. Someone had brought him a sandwich and some crisps. Andrew, he suspected. The intern was like the younger brother he never had. He didn't know what time it was though as his cellphone was probably somewhere with his clothes. He grabbed the plate and reluctantly opened the door, squinting his eyes as the afternoon's sun rays greeted his pupils which immediately constricted upon impact. He shuffled down the hallway, basking in the corridor's orange glow from the sunset shining through the windows. John walked with the plate in one hand while he rubbed his eye with the other.

"Oh, Doctor Watson. Did you not go home?" Doctor Erikson asked as her blonde ponytail bounced with each nod she made as she spoke.

"Hullo, Doctor Erikson. No, I did not. I actually had a bit of a nap in the on-call room," he answered.

"Call me Natalia, Doctor," she replied.

"Oh, then call me John."

She smiled at him and then checked her watch.

"It's a little after 5. You should head on home, John. We'll page if we need you."

"Sounds good. Thanks," the doctor responded as he walked by, grabbing one half of the sandwich and biting into it.

He sat on a bench in the locker room where all the doctors kept their clothes and continued to eat his sandwich. Turkey breast, mayonnaise, a white cheese he liked but never knew the name of, tomato and lettuce all on wheat bread. Just the way he liked it. And plain potato crisps, salted. He began ruminating, trying to remember what his dream was about. Something from his military days, he presumed. The blond had been having a lot of those dreams. The soldier in his dream, the older man, seemed extremely familiar, almost as if he were someone that John wasn't supposed to have forgotten. Perhaps it was due to his post-traumatic stress. He thought his memories might be leaking from his subconscious into his dreams, away from the repression he had been forcing upon his mentality with the mercenary jobs. As unhealthy as it was, at this point, he really didn't care. His leg hurt and his shoulder hurt, but he had filched a couple bottles of vicodin before he went into surgery about eight hours ago. Of course, he was careful not to get addicted. He only took them because a patient's life was in his hands. He was also certain he would never get caught because John H. Watson was no amateur. If he could survive serving in Afghanistan and avoid the law almost nightly, stealing a couple bottles of pills was nothing. He covered his tracks very well.

Well, perhaps not as well as he would hope.

A/N:

It is currently 5:17am and I am pretty tired.
And hungry.
But since I love everyone so much, I forced myself to finish this so I could get it out for the weekend.
My week has been very chaotic, including today, but I knew I had to get this out. I've been going out running errands and doing all sort of things in preparation for the new semester.
Parallel can wait since no one really reads it. LOL But that doesn't mean it's permanently on the back burner! I have loyal followers for that, I must write for them :)
Plus it's fun.

If you could tell, I experimented with my style. Okay, not experimented...per se...but more like actually wrote a little more seriously. The chapters I've been posting were more first draft-type styles, not thinking of actual literary aspects but more on getting it down. That's why they were so short and abrupt.
My actual writing style utilizes long sentences and insights.

This is a hybrid. I just made it less abrupt.
But the chapter is short because I am tired. Haha
I usually do a read over before submitting (I have no beta and don't plan to use one b/c this is a hobby I do when I have time) and that's about it. I didn't read through this one though, so it's pretty raw.

Thank you for reading and reviewing!
Some of you actually read my stupid author notes I ramble on and reply. And some comment on errors which is always welcome too. It makes me giddy people actually read my story. ^^
You are all beautiful people. hahaha