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

The Good Doctor
Chapter 8

The Game is Afoot

In the very heart of London, past the smog and groggy atmosphere, there was a professor who educated bright young adult minds in the subject of Criminal Psychology. His knowledge on the subject was very extensive, so naturally, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective to Scotland Yard, sometimes visited (perhaps on a lesser frequency than he used to when he was younger) to have a bit of a chat or perhaps receive some insight from an outsider's view on a case he was...ruminating on. No, Sherlock Holmes never struggled on a case; sometimes, sorting the information through his infinitely growing mind palace merely took a bit longer than usual.

He had not seen the professor in perhaps a few months and decided maybe it was time. As the lithe man strode along the pavement, not quite paying attention as he was lost in his thoughts, he shoved his hands which were encased in leather gloves into his pockets. The dropping temperature was no obstacle to him. In fact, the actually preferred the cold, sharp, crisp air to the stifling heat of the summer or to the pollen-ridden air of the spring sky. He continued on his way when something bumped into him and jolted him out of his thoughts. He heard a small mutter of "Sorry," and saw nothing but a head of blond hair until he turned his head to glance at the retreating figure, staring at the back of a brown leather jacket that was diminishing from his sight as the distance between the two increased. The stranger turned a corner and disappeared from view.

Was it odd that Sherlock Holmes found the voice familiar? He was sure he didn't know anyone of such short nature with a head of gold, but he brushed the thought away and walked on, deciding to take a shortcut through the marketplace.

As he entered the narrow alleyway, the hustle and bustle of the marketplace grew exponentially louder the nearer he drew towards the entrance. There were old women and men, occasionally a few young folk, hollering out the prices of their freshly harvested fruits and vegetables. Sherlock went past quite a few stalls when stopped as he reached the middle of the alley, recognizing the owner.

"Sherlock! My man! How are you this fine afternoon?" a stocky, muscled man boomed out to the handsome fellow in front of him who seemed to be physically opposite from the man in every way. The fruit vendor's golden ring shone in the sun above him as he gripped the detective's shoulder as Sherlock removed his gloves and enthusiastically shook his bare hand up and down in a vigorous manner.

"Greetings, Mr. Romano. I am well. How are you faring?" the detective answered his former client with a small, ingenuine smile.

Mr. Romano waved his hand in front of his face. "Please, Sherlock, call me Lorenzo. Business is doing great as usual!" he beamed. He turned to his left.

"Hey, hey, Paul! Look who's here, huh? It's, uh, that guy I told you about," the Italian man hollered over to another man two stalls down whom Sherlock assumed to be a good friend of his. The tall, skinny man wiped his hands on the white apron tied around his waist and walked over behind the flower vendor between them who ignored them and went about her way.

"Oh, it's the, uh, detective, right?" he said as he reached over to shake Sherlock's hand. "I'm Pete. I heard what you did for Renzo, here," he said as he pointed with his thumb towards his friend who was ran his hand over his slicked back hair.

"Yes, it was a small matter. Nothing to be mentioned," Sherlock replied when Lorenzo Romano pulled the detective towards his stall and patted him on the back (perhaps a bit more forceful than a simple pat).

The man let out a mirthful chuckle. "Nah, don't be so modest, eh, Sherlock? You got me out of big trouble. And I mean big. My wife would've killed me if that drug-dealing gang didn't get to me first. And I didn't do nothin' either!" he exclaimed as the other man, Pete, rolled his eyes.

His friend turned to Sherlock.

"Well, if I ever run into a pinch, I know just the man who I'll be running to, eh?" Pete said as he smiled. Sherlock dug in his pocket and handed him a card with his contact information.

"Yes, yes, any time. I'm sorry to cut this short but I really must be leaving. Have a good evening," he nodded to them.

As he began to walk away, Mr. Romano stopped him.

"Hey, Sherlock, take your pick, on me," the vendor said, spreading his arms towards his fruits. The detective hesitated, but picked up a couple pieces of fruits and held it up in thanks as he bit into one.

xxx

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. What a surprise!" a blonde secretary said, flustered as she watched the detective walk through the door of the office. She began toying with the blond curls that cascaded down her shoulder. "I'm sorry, but the professor isn't in right now," she informed him before he inquired. Not that he would. She knew him enough from the handful of times he's visited since she started working there.

"And when will he be back?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, he said that he would be returni-"

"-Now, now, Lucy, we mustn't disobey the professor's orders, now, should we?" a feminine voice interrupted, tutting at the secretary from a door in the opposite corner off the wall where the blonde woman's desk sat.

A rather voluptuous woman slinked through the doorway wearing a simple black dress that molded to her frame and black heels. Her fingernails were well kept and painted perfectly with a shade of blood-red that matched her lipstick. The corners of her mouth curved upwards and her pupils dilated at the sight of the attractive detective.

"Oh, my. And who may this be? Wait, let me guess. Sherlock Holmes. Am I right?" she asked with a smile that showed off her pristinely whitened, perfect teeth. She raised a perfectly plucked brow waiting for his answer as she leaned a hand on Lucy's desk. The blonde glared daggers at the disrupting female as if she were invading in on her territory.

Sherlock slightly cocked his head to the right as he analyzed her being. He had never met this woman before.

"Hm, yes. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. How do you do?" he asked, holding out a hand for a handshake.

The woman placed her other hand over her chest as her eyes darted from his shoes to his face. Lifting her chin slightly, she peered at him through half-lidded eyes. "My, and the man has manners too," she said, placing her hand in his and shaking it. "Irene Adler. Nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much."

The brown-haired detective nodded. "Pleasure." He turned his attention back to the secretary.

"Well, I see no reason for my stay if the professor isn't available. I must be going," he said. Sherlock reached down into his pocket and brought out one of the two apples he had taken from Romano's cart. "A gift, for the professor," he mentioned as brandished it in the air a bit before setting it down on the desk.

"Send my regards," he said over his shoulder as the two women stared at his retreating back, the blonde lost in a daydream while the other raised her eyebrow as she smirked.

Sherlock stepped back out onto the street and hailed down a black cab, one which immediately pulled over at the sight of his arm waving in the air.

As the detective opened the door and climbed in, the driver turned around. "Well, where to then, sir?" he asked.

"St. Bart's, please," he requested, and just like that, the cab took off.

Whenever Sherlock was in a dull moment on a case, he liked to go to St. Bart's and continue his experiments on the side. What he learned from cadavers and chemical reactions greatly helped in his studies and he felt like he was on the verge of breakthrough on one of his current experiments, one he had put off due to the sudden presence of the so-called "Doctor" that recently raised chaos for the men in Scotland Yard. It was a bit amusing, really. Lestrade and his men had neither hide or tail of this mysterious figure, and it was up to Sherlock to find out his identity, but he found himself a bit reluctant to break the spell. He didn't want to know, yet he did at the same time. It was thrilling; a challenge. Once he discovered and captured the man, there would be nothing more, hence, his hesitance in completing his duty.

Before he knew it, the cabbie had pulled up next to the hospital.

"Here you are, sir," he said as Sherlock handed him the appropriate amount of money before exiting the vehicle. He walked through the door as the taxi sped away behind him and turned towards the morgue. He had left his riding crop there last time and he figured he might as well retrieve it now on the way towards the lab.

"Sh-Sherlock!" he heard a female voice stammer out his name. He hadn't noticed, but he had just walked past a very nervous (and giddy) Molly Hooper, a woman who worked there and always attempted to strike up a conversation with the unwilling detective. She was of a rather medium height, average to skinny build, and had very light colored brown hair which was put up in a ponytail.

He turned towards Molly who bit her bottom lip and blinked rapidly at him as her hands fidgeted around in her white lab coat pockets..

"Evening."

She bounced on her heel. "What brings you here, today? You haven't been by in a while. Not that I was looking. For you, I mean. Well, I noticed you weren't here, but I didn't mean that I was stalking you or someth-"

"-Yes. Well, I shall be at the lab if you need me," he cut off her rambling, and began to walk off. She smiled, her cheeks reddening.

"Oh really? I'm heading over there myself! I'll accompany you," she chirped at his back, scrambling to catch up with him.

As John walked down the street, he vigorously rubbed his hands together in a futile attempt to warm them up. His fingers were ice cold and no matter how long he kept them in his pockets, they refused to retain heat. The weather felt like it was changing by the minute and he really wished he had a thicker jacket on. He rolled his neck, trying to get the kinks out. Living a double life was definitely taking its physical toll on John, especially since he didn't quite limber up before his nightly excursions. If he wasn't careful, he could tear a muscle or stretch out a ligament, neither of which were anything he'd like to experience anytime soon. But he's been through worse things.

The doctor shook his head, immediately cutting off that train of thought. His memories were locked away on purpose, but his brain was trying to trick him into diving back into things he'd rather forget. He had lived through Hell. He had lived a nightmare and every day, he still paid the price if only in his sleep.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he checked it. An email, from an underground arms dealer. John scanned the contents of the message and scoffed. It was a bit unexpected, but the dealer had sent out a newsletter about the new equipment he had just received. Laughing, the doctor scrolled down and saw that the man, Erik, had even set up pictures with their starting prices below it. As he scrolled, something caught his eye and he pinched his fingers to zoom in on the screen and succeeded after failing a few times (after all, he was a bit technologically-challenged; Harry had given him the blasted phone and hadn't had the decency to explain how to work it). Erik was selling Walther PPKs, but the thing that really caught his eye was a beautiful ivory, nickel-plated Colt1911 A1 .45 caliber. It was absolutely breathtaking and John wondered how it looked in person. The barrel was engraved with swirls of vines; it was such intricate metalwork, it looked like a work of art. Of course, he carried around a Walther PPK and additional small pistols and knives on his person at all times, but it wouldn't hurt to get another handgun...

He became excited at the prospect of buying another weapon. John H. Watson had secrets, and his love for weapons was something that most would find unexpected of his kind nature. He was pretty sure if Andrew, his intern, knew that he carried around weapons, he'd probably have a heart attack. John chuckled at the thought of his young friend, but stopped as he realized he was supposed to go back to work. He hastily checked his watch and realized he was an hour late! The doctor ran for it, hailing down a cab and barking at the cabbie to take him to the nearest tube station; he couldn't take a taxi all the way there. It was too far.

"Thank you," he said as he threw down a couple bills and made his way into the sea of people while making utters of "Excuse me," as he fought his way through, promptly buying a ticket. As he reached the edge of the platform, the doors were beginning to shut. Panicking, the doctor jumped and made it just in time, the doors clicking shut behind him. People were staring at him due to his brazen act so he cleared his throat awkwardly, scanned the car and sat down, miraculously finding an empty seat.

After a few moments, the lights began flickering as the tube went through a tunnel and John felt a weird sensation. It was a bit eerie and uncomfortable, like someone was watching him from afar. He turned his head and surveyed the people, finding not a single pair of eyes aimed his way. Towards the back, something crashed to the floor, catching the doctor's attention as well as several other people. A man whose hat was covering the top half of his face bent down to set a black, battered guitar case back to its upright position.

xxx

"I'm telling you, Doctor Watson, one more time and I'm definitely going to take action," the chief warned as John sheepishly smiled at him.

"Oh come on, Tim, don't be like that. I was all the way in the middle of London!" John said, nudging his friend. "Remember when you had a hangover and I covered your ass when that bus crash happened and everyone was looking for you?" It was a cheap shot, but John didn't really care. They were friends, after all.

Timothy laughed. "Alright, but seriously, stop coming in late. Doctor Robinson almost had a panic attack because you weren't here," he informed the blond. "And I do not like dealing with a hyperventilating Victoria, do you understand?"

"She likes you, you know," John said with a chuckle as his friend's eyes widened, terror making its way across his face.

"No way! Crap!"

He patted the chief's back and walked out the office to change into his scrubs. Tonight was going to be a long night.

As John exited the locker room door, still in the process of putting on his white coat, he heard a voice call to him, "John! Doctor Watson!" John knew that voice anywhere

"Andrew. Evening."

The lanky intern beamed at him. "I'm on your service today." He rubbed his hands as the doctor was handed a chart from a nurse who smiled and winked at him and began filling it out. "So, what do we have?" Andrew asked.

John took the chart and bonked his intern on the head. "Who says you're scrubbing in with me?"

The young man merely smirked. He knew John better than anyone at this hospital; John wanted him to earn it, which he had already done in advance in anticipation.

"I already updated your charts and checked on all your patients. Oh and I had someone send Doctor Robinson to the clinic. I know how she gets when you're late. Oh and here," he handed his attending a cup of tea which John gladly took.

"You learn quickly, young grasshopper," he said before taking a sip, warming his body to the core. "But you're still not scrubbing in," he said.

Andrew lightly stomped his foot playfully mimicking a child having a minor temper tantrum. "Why?" he whined.

John rolled his eyes as he took another sip of his tea. "Clinic's short on staff. Go. There are flu shots waiting to be given," he said, shooing his intern with the chart. Andrew's shoulders slumped and he slowly dragged himself away after giving his attending one last pout combined with large puppy dog eyes. Doctor Watson responded by bonking him on the head again and walking off. John turned around and hollered, "But not before you prep the patient!"

Andrew groaned and changed directions.

Satisfied, John headed toward his patient's room when a man popped out of nowhere and grabbed his arm.

"Doctor Watson?" the male asked.

John turned around to face a skinny, well-groomed and well-dressed man. He certainly looked out of place at this tiny facility.

"Yes. Um, may I help you?" he asked, not quite recognizing the man in front of his yes.

The stranger shook his head. "No, never mind. Have a good day," he said almost in a sing-song voice as he slowly walked away from a very confused John, hands in his pockets and whistling an unrecognizable tune.

Down the hallway a head peered around the corner.

"Hey, Doc. Your patient's prepped and ready for surgery. I'll be going then. To the clinic. Where I have been banished.," Andrew yelled.

Roused from his thoughts, John turned around to face Andrew and noted he was coming, but turned back to look at the figure, but the mysterious man had disappeared from view. He turned and continued down to his patient and rolled his neck, preparing for what was going to be a long night of difficult surgery, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. After all, he was a doctor in the army and picked up a few tricks here and there.

Sherlock was concentrating intensely through a microscope which was focused on a slide of blood when he heard a crash to his left. Reflexively, the detective jerked his head up and caught sight of a clumsy Molly Hooper who was crouched over a spilled table of medical instruments. Files and folders were clutched under her arm. She froze and looked at him, giving him a sheepish smile.

"S-s-sorry. It just, fell. I couldn't help it. I mean, I could help it but you me. Clumsy Molly. It was rather all over very quick, and you know. I swear, I'll clean it up. Really," she stammered out to the attractive man sitting on a stool before her. He had already turned his attention back to the magnified slide just as quickly as he had turned his head to face the brunette. All it took was single glance to deduce what had happened, and he didn't quite care.

A silence settled over the pair with nothing but clinking noises resonating throughout the as Molly quietly picked up the metal instruments that had fallen to the ground. She winced every time they made clinking noises. She felt like she was bothering Sherlock and was a bit afraid he would come less often than he already did due to a want to avoid her.

Trying to strike up a conversation, the morgue attendant, still squatting on the floor, asked, "So, working on any interesting cases lately?"

He didn't answer, so Molly bit her lower lip and felt a bit silly. He was working, so he obviously didn't hear her. Or maybe he didn't want to answer. Maybe she was prying too much. She picked up the files she had abandoned on the floor to pick up the metal atop of the tray and stood up, tray in hand. She placed them back on the counter where they originally sat and moved towards the door to leave.

"Vigilante. Doctor," the detective uttered. It was so abrupt, Molly couldn't tell whether she had imagined his two words or if he actually said them, but either way, her cheeks flushed as Sherlock Holmes actually spoke to her. She quietly shut the door and slipped out, heading to the morgue. She was about to begin a secondary autopsy on a man who had been murdered a while ago, an unknown man whom the police could not, for the life of them, figure out, but she didn't know why they thought doing another autopsy would help. She had already done all she could in the first one and carefully noted her exact findings which included the contents in his stomach; essentially the dead man's last meal. Finding the correct container, Molly opened door to the massive silver wall which contained all the bodies. She wheeled the Joe Bloggs (John Doe) out and unzipped the body bag.

After a solid thirty minutes, the morgue attendant heard the door open behind her. Sherlock walked in. She froze in shock again. What was he doing here? What business did he have?

He gave her a curt smiled and leaned over her shoulder, his body so close, she could smell him. He smelled nice. Her heart began racing and she began panicking. What was he doing? What did he want?

Without a second to spare, the detective grabbed her notes and began flipping through them.

Oh.

Slightly disappointed, Molly asked, "Um, is something of interest to you from my notes?"

The detective habitually started walking around the room making sure to keep within distance of the single light source in the dark autopsy room so he could read her notes. Molly had decided to turn off all the other lights because she didn't need it, after all.

"Hm. He's connected to a case I'm working on," he answered as the brunette continued her work.

"I haven't found anything new, if you're wondering," she informed him. "Did you make a break on your uh, thing? Experiment?" she asked, trying to keep up what passed as a conversation between the two, only this time silence welcomed her.

Suddenly, Sherlock started muttering, "Stupid, stupid, stupid!" under his breath. For a moment, Molly was taken aback.

"I'm sorry? Stupid?" she asked.

The detective shut the file and tossed it on the tray it was on. He waved one hand at her, his other located atop his left temple.

"No, no, not you. I, I have to go," he said without a single word of explanation. Once again, Sherlock left Molly Hooper gawking at his retreating back, the door slowly closing.

A/N:

GahHH! I am so terribly sorry I skipped the update last week!
I worked on it here and there, but it never got done, mostly because I had a writer's block. lol
But I knew I couldn't skip this week, so I tried my best to sit down and write, write, write.
Thus, this lame..short chapter was born.
SO SORRY! -_- Man. I need to try to write in advance, but a week is so short.

On another note, I developed a weird pseudo-narcolepsy.
I would wake up at random times after school at home and find that I had fallen asleep. It's a strange feeling. haha
Regardless, thank you so much for sticking with me and reading!