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

The Good Doctor
Chapter 10

Mistakes

Sitting alone at the table, Richard Compton spent his time concentrating on a plate of pasta until his phone vibrated. The host kept glancing at him, giving him pity looks because his nonexistent date never showed up but that was the only way Richard felt would allow him to eat alone at the restaurant without looking suspicious He checked the screen and quickly dropped his fork, waving for the check.

A few moments later, the client braved the cold, shivering as he left the warmth of the restaurant and into the chilling wind. He shivered and pulled his jacket closer to his body. Walking down the familiar streets (he lived in the area), Richard stopped when he reached the gate at the entrance of the park. There wasn't a soul anywhere to be found. He cautiously walked into the eerily empty park with nothing but the howling wind to accompany him, a bit fearful and a bit excited at the same time. He needed this; he needed closure on his wife's sudden death. He knew it wasn't a mere accident; it had to have been staged. The company killed her and he deeded to know why. The fact that he lacked the resources and means to do so hindered him, thus, out went he went to the seedy underground world of London to scout out an assassin. It was there where he caught wind of a mysterious figure named 'The Doctor' whom all the papers had been writing about. The mercenary's view on justice intrigued him and from there, the gears of fate started turning.

As instructed, Richard Compton found a bench near a giant, lone, willow tree behind what looked like a small forest at the far side of the park where it was difficult to see unless one actually roamed off the cement pathway. It was a corner of privacy, away from the many children, pets, and adults who usually occupied the green fields which was most likely for couples looking to have a bit of solitude. A shadow flickered in and out of the corner of his eye, so he whipped his head around but saw nothing. He figured it must have been a figment of his imagination.

A gust of wind blew his way and he shivered again, although his time, Richard was not sure whether the chill in his spine was from fear or the cold. He heard something shuffle in the branches of the tree and looked up when a cloaked figure jumped from the tree abaft the bench, startling him. He yelped out in surprise and jumped to his feet.

"Greetings, Mr. Compton. I am the Doctor. How may I assist you?" the stranger said to a cowering Richard as he walked from the shadows and into the single source of light from the lamp post next to them. The short man lowered his hood revealing a head covered by a black pageboy hat, but he could tell the stranger was blond. His eyes were covered by sunglasses-'how could he see in the dark?' Richard wondered-and his nose and mouth was hidden by cloth that was extended from his shirt, covering them like a mask.

"You're-you're the Doctor?" he stuttered.

John started pacing around the nervous client.

"Mm, yes. The third wolf sat alone in the den."

Oh right. The passphrase. Richard had practiced his line several times in his head in fear of forgetting it. "Uh, then the blue moon died on a whim," he said, feeling a bit silly at the whole prospect. The passphrase didn't even make sense, but he supposed it was an extra precaution so that one couldn't guess what it was.

John nodded as Richard simultaneously let out a breath of relief.

"My wife. She was killed. I know it for a fact," he began, "and I can bet you anything, it was the man she worked for. Her death wasn't natural."

The mercenary nodded. He had already done his fair of research and nearly had a heart attack when he realized his client's wife was the woman patient who died on his table on what seemed like an eternity ago. He had to take this job; it was his responsibility to see it to the end. His client's wife had died on his table, and that fact alone made it a little personal.

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss. I'm sure the doctor did all he could," he added uncharacteristically. John was usually all about business, but he couldn't help but feel a little bit responsible. "I've, looked at the circumstance and I belie-"

"-he was doing something illegal. My wife was always a bit on edge. She wouldn't tell me exactly what she found out, but I knew it was something bad. I think they figured she knew and they killed her," Richard interrupted the Doctor hurriedly.

John furrowed his eyebrows.

"Wait, what? Who are 'they'?"

Somewhere behind John, hiding behind a plethora of trees, a shadowy figure raised a rifle and aimed it towards the pair. Out of nowhere, John and the client heard the sound of sirens bellowing closer, but they didn't even fathom the thought that the sirens were coming for them, right? They looked towards the direction of the noise, distracted for a second.

"I don't know. My wife, all she told me was one name," Richard said, returning to the conversation.

John took a step towards him.

"The name, Richard. Give me the name," John demanded.

"She-she told me the name...'Moriarty'."

The name slipped from his lips before the man crumpled to the ground. John looked down in shock. His client had landed onto his side after hitting his back on the bench, the side of his face leaning on the concrete. There was a clean bullet hole between his eyes, clearly shot by a rifle with a silencer. John turned around, grabbing the Walther PPK that was tucked into his pants on his back and looked wildly through the forest, cocking it. He heard shuffling feet march closer and people yelling.

The policemen! They were in the park and gaining in on him. Luckily, he knew the terrain better than they did. Never had a meeting gone so awry! He really should have taken the extra precautions to make sure there was no one else following Richard, but he failed to do so today because he was distracted by the many thoughts of Mary running through his mind.

He began to run towards the forest when he felt pain pierce through his bad leg. He tripped and fell, laying on the ground as the police found him, shining their lights from a distance.

"Over here! Looks like a homicide! The tip was right. Don't let the murder get away! He's armed and dangerous, I repeat: armed and dangerous!" a man yelled at his fellow men before he called it into his radio.

John grunted and hoisted himself up, fully aware that his DNA was now flowing freely onto the concrete and grass he had stumbled upon from a bullet wound. He limped, running towards the trees as able-bodied men began to chase him. Luckily, he had a head start as the men were still far from being anywhere near enough to catch him. John tore off his sunglasses, hat, and lowered his mask to give him a better visual and to create room to breathe. He widened his eyes, looking for the shooter and saw someone darting through the trees, away from the scene.

Being used to running under pressure with sustained injuries, the army veteran grit his teeth and went north, the same direction the figure had as the men began to open-fire behind him. It was darker in the trees than out where the bench was and he kept tripping over rocks and trees. He was being loud and clumsy, grimacing as he stepped on twigs that made loud cracks in the night. He could see that the men entered the forest as their torches (flashlights) beamed through the leaves. Something was hurling towards him and John squinted and immediately bent over backwards, falling awkwardly on the insides of where his ankles were as his thighs met as he heard a loud thud. He hissed at the pain, but worked through it, looking up. There, ledged in the tree trunk behind him, was a glistening silver knife. He quickly stood up and yanked it out, spinning it and holding it in his empty hand.

Obviously the figure who had thrown it was skilled with knife-throwing and it wouldn't be beyond him to think that he was probably a professional assassin. He kept running, but the blood loss was making him extremely dizzy (not to mention the pain), but he was doing a great job feeding off of his adrenaline. John could see slivers of the light on the main road on the other side of the park and a burst of energy shot through him. Suddenly, he heard loud barking and knew that it was a police-trained canine that was set loose to capture him.

He wasn't going to make it.

Out of nowhere, someone gripped his arm from behind and slung it over their own shoulders, helping him as he limped towards what would be freedom. Just how many people were in the trees? He yelled out in pain again as he felt another sharp pierce in his side and saw that another knife was thrown, but this time, it impaled his body where his ribcage sat.

"You've got to be kidding me!" he shouted as the man who was helping him out shushed him.

"We're almost at the main road," the stranger said. They exited the trees and the glowing orange light from the streets greeted them warmly. John's vision was fading and all he could make out from the man helping him was that he was taller than John was. Pretty skinny too. He thought he heard a murmur of, "Here, take this so you don't bleed over everything," and felt a heavy piece of cloth envelop him. The man also took his scarf off and tied it around John's leg before hailing down a taxi. He shoved the doctor in and they successfully escaped the sounds of barking as the cabbie drove into the streets of London, blending in with the torrent of cars making their way back into the same direction as John managed to utter, "No hospital."

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock ordered the cabbie once he lowered the blond man's body into the vehicle and pushed, climbing in himself. The driver looked like a kindly older gentleman with graying hair. The wrinkles around his skin seemed as if they were developed due to excess smiling, something he was doing at that moment.

"Right you are, sir," he said cheerfully and quickly sped off. After a few moments, the chatty man glanced back up at the rear view mirror to take a good look at his patrons. A short blond man was draped in the taller man's coat. That much was obvious. It looked like a blanket on the man's smaller stature and the dark-haired man wore nothing but a purple collared shirt. It was much too cold for one layer.

"Looks like yours is all puckered out, eh?" he asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I suppose," he answered, not exactly realizing what the cabbie was implying.

"Had a nice night, I hope?" he asked.

Sherlock, who was looking out the window, didn't budge. As he stared at the passing lights, he merely responded, "Not quite."

The cabbie turned on his signal to note that he was taking a right. "Ah, that's no good. You know, if you want things to work out long-term, you're gonna have to give and take. Yup. That's my motto: give and take. Otherwise, you'll find yourself alone in a blink of an eye, left with nothing but memories of what could have been, what should have been, and what was," he advised, turning the wheel.

Sherlock looked at the rear view mirror at the cabbie who, at that moment, had his eyes on the road. The man was clearly talking about something that he wasn't aware of. "I...am alone," he informed, not quite sure where the conversation was going.

The cabbie tutted and shook his head, glancing back up at the dark-haired man's brilliant eyes. His own darted to the blond man who was currently using the skinny male's shoulder as a pillow. "That's no way to talk. I'm sure things'll turn around."

For the remainder of the trip, silence swept the car and Sherlock spent the time still unaware of the position John was situated in.

"Here, you go, sir," the older man said as he rolled to a stop. Sherlock leaned forward to pay the fare and exited the car, briskly walking to the other side. He opened the door and grabbed the mercenary who had fallen in the empty space Sherlock's body had occupied. The man was unconscious, so he had no choice but to carry him to the door. He scooped the stranger up with one arm underneath his knees and the other under his back and hoisted them up, struggling to maintain his balance. Even though the man was small and short in nature, he was definitely not light.

"Eh, do you need help with him, sir?" the cabbie asked. Sherlock grunted and struggled towards the door. He kicked it a few times with his foot, banging it to get his landlady's attention. After a few swift kicks, an older woman with a kind face opened the door with slight annoyance written across her face.

"Sherlock, how many times have I told you-oh!" she cried as she caught sight of the men before her doorstep. The cabbie drove off behind them and she quickly moved backwards to let them in. The unconscious blond was slipping from the slender man's weak grip.

"Mrs. Hudson, grab his other arm, please," Sherlock politely ordered as he lowered the doctor's legs down. Together, they struggled up the stairs to the couches, laying him across the cushions. The consulting detective took his coat off the man's body and surveyed the damage.

Mrs. Hudson gasped at the sight. There was a hole in the man's black pant leg and a knife was sticking out of his side. It was hard to see the blood on his black under armor shirt, but she knew it was pooled around the gleaming silver.

Suddenly, the stranger stirred and Mrs. Hudson jumped, letting out a little scream while covering her mouth as the blond man gasped and abruptly sat up as he woke from shock, the pain overwhelming his pain receptors as his adrenaline was no longer there to fend it off.

"Ah, you're awake," the detective calmly said, a bit too nonchalantly as if he didn't have a bleeding fugitive in his living room.

"Al-alcohol," the mercenary gasped out. "Towel. Tweezers. Hook and thread. Now," he ordered, slowly raising his leg onto the coffee table. The older lady scrambled downstairs, gathering the things he told her to get.

He turned towards his savior. "Who are you and where am I?"

"The name's Holmes, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. I was trailing your client when he was shot," the curly-haired man introduced himself. "You're in my flat because you explicitly ordered me not to take you to a hospital. Although I'm quite sure you need it," he said, pointedly staring at the man's injuries.

"Why didn't you just let the police get me?" he asked, his arm muscles bulging as he placed pressure onto his leg. His chest was heaving up and down, the knife moving with it. He grimaced and bit his lower lip to keep himself from shouting out in pain.

Sherlock, who stood before him with his hands in his pocket, pulled his phone out and began to text someone.

"Because you didn't kill him. And as much as I tolerate my older brother, I'm going to keep you here because he wants you behind bars," he said, not really paying attention to the bleeding mercenary. John scrunched his face.

"What? You're keeping me here out of spite for your brother?"

Sherlock didn't get a chance to respond as they heard a pitter-patter trail up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson ran in with an armful of the things John told her to get and set them down.

"Are you alright, dear? Will a fish hook do? I pulled it out from my ex-husband's things. You wouldn't believe the junk he collected. Oh, and I'm so terribly sorry, dear, but this was all I had for alcohol," she said as she held out brown liquor.

The blond nodded. "That'll do," he said, reaching for what looked like a bottle of bourbon.

"Need anything? Tea? Biscuits?" she continued.

The detective, without looking up from his phone, grabbed the woman's arm and shooed her out. "Yes, yes, we're fine, Mrs. Hudson. Go make some tea," he said as she resisted a bit, wanting to stay and help, but she eventually gave up and left the men to their own devices.

After clicking send, he looked up to see the blond stranger tie the thread onto the hook after pouring the alcoholic beverage on it to sanitize it. The man stretched and shoved his hand into his pocket, fishing for something and pulled out a pocket knife. He sliced off the small triangular piece of excess metal with some difficulty, trying to make it smooth and then proceeded to fold up the towel and shove it in his mouth, clenching down on it. Sherlock tilted his head and watched with morbid interest as the man closed his eyes, drank a swig of the alcohol, and took in three deep breaths, yanking the silver knife out on the third with both hands. He let out a muffled cry through the towel as blood poured out and down his side. He quickly leaned to his left and poured some more of the alcohol on it, biting down hard on the towel. With deft hands, he proceeded to sew the wound with lethal precision.

"Doctor. Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked.

John faltered at his words and looked up at him for a second before proceeding to finish up his impromptu stitching. He spat out the towel and reached for the alcohol bottle, gulping more, trying to ignore the burning sensation of the strong liquor sliding down his throat.

He almost choked and coughed several times. "What?" he asked bewildered, but genuinely curious.

"I observed you in the park. Slight limp in the leg you got shot at. I'm assuming that was psychosomatic because you seem to favor your right shoulder and not the left-a sign of a previous injury, but that isn't the case with your legs. You don't favor one over the other. Obviously knowledgeable in combat and weapons. Able to function under pressure, a key component for a soldier at war. Tanned; natural. An obvious sign you've been somewhere constantly sunny-definitely not in London or anywhere near. Soldier, meaning army, meaning Afghanistan or Iraq. An army doctor, judging by your accurate precision in applying stitches and of course, there's the overall general component of the double life you lead as a mercenary. So, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John, slightly out of it, pressed down on his leg. "Wow. Amazing. Afghanistan," he answered as he took another gulp of the bourbon, but then realizing he forgot to ask the landlady for anything similar to a tourniquet. He took off the blood-stained scarf and reached down to his combat boots which were still on, and untied one of them, pulling out the shoelace. He grabbed the area of his pants with the hole and ripped it open to gain access to his thigh and secured the shoelace tightly onto his leg to constrict the blood flow. After hissing as he poured more alcohol on his leg, he grabbed the tweezers which he had sanitized ahead of him and stuffed the towel in his mouth, once again. He relaxed his body, trying to calm himself down, and when he got to a point where he thought he was good, he gripped the tweezers so hard, his hand turned white, and then dug into his flesh. There was no exit wound, so he knew the bullet was still lodged somewhere in his leg; he just hoped to God it wasn't in that deeply.

Luckily, he had to endure less than one minute of blind digging before he found it. At that point, his throat was sore from screaming into the towel and blood was gushing out and around the wound. He poured more alcohol around it with his other hand and gave one final tug to the stubborn bullet, pulling it free from his flesh. He was close to passing out, but he stayed conscious due to sheer will. He began to stitch it up like he did his side, but this time, he was dangerously dizzy.

"Blood. Get me blood. B negative," he told Sherlock. He hadn't told the man his name yet, but he figured he might as well because the police already had his DNA and could surely match it rather quickly in the government's system as John had military ties. The man was a detective, so it was only a matter of time before he discovered his name anyway. "I'm John, by the way. John Watson," he informed the slender male who was now sitting on an armchair.

Sherlock nodded as he stood up and walked to a room to the right of the kitchen. He came back out holding another coat. John frowned. "Sorry about your coat," he said, glancing at the crumpled black material forgotten on the floor. The detective shook his head, putting on the new coat he had just retrieved.

"It's only a coat," he said as he turned his collar up and coolly walked downstairs and out the door.

xxx

"Sh-Sherlock?" Molly timidly called out to a skinny figure clad in a black coat, ghosting across the hallway. She had some business to attend to upstairs when she caught sight of the detective, a bit curious as to why he was at the hospital at this ungodly hour.

The detective turned around, slightly annoyed. "Molly. Good evening. Or morning, I should say," he said, wanting to make his way towards St. Bart's blood bank. Molly straightened out her clothes and re-tied her hair, trying to make herself presentable.

"What brings you here? Not here to steal some pills are you?" she joked.

The detective tilted his head at her words. "Why would I do that?"

Molly's smile faltered. "Well, it was a joke. You know because...well, nevermind. What brings you here?" she asked.

"I need to borrow something."

Molly gripped the chart she held in her hands. "Um, do you want some company?" she asked shyly.

"No," he answered, "but I would like to know where the blood bank is."

"The blood bank?" she asked, a little confused. "It's...down the corridor, past the ICU and down a couple more corridors, I think. You need a key card to get in though," she told him.

A key card?

"Molly, have I told you that you look particularly nice today?" he lied. The morgue attendant shuffled her feet and subconsciously reached up to smooth her hair out. "On second thought, I think I would like some company," he smiled. Of course, Ms. Hooper couldn't resist and happily led the way.

xxx

"You know, I'm really not supposed to be doing this. I mean, if they find out, I'm going to get in so much trouble," Molly rambled on. "I'm not even sure my key card works. I'm just a morgue attendant. What do you need it for again?" she asked, sliding her card and punching her code in. The light turned green as she was successfully granted access. Sherlock made sure to memorize it in case he ever swiped her card and needed it.

"An experiment," he lied.

Molly pushed the door open as Sherlock swept past her, looking for blood type B-.

"You need an entire bag?" she asked a tiny bit incredulously.

"Yes. I'm doing several experiments," he absent-mindedly replied, searching the room. Ah. There it was.

The detective reached and grabbed a pint of blood. He led the way out the door, which the attendant pulled shut, and walked down the hallway. He slipped into an empty room and found an IV needle with the tube attached to it and shoved it in his pockets. He came back out to a curious Molly when he doubled back and decided to stock up on gauze and bandages because he clearly didn't have any at home.

"Is..everything alright?" the light-brown haired woman asked, eyeing the materials that were sticking out of his pockets as they stealthily dodged the nurses that were checking on various patients.

Sherlock tried to shove them further down in his pockets, but they weren't deep enough. "Yes, yes. Nothing of great matter. Thank you," he said as they reached the lobby. "Good night, Molly," and with that, he left her standing alone with her chart.

xxx

"John. Wake up," Sherlock said, shaking the unconscious mercenary. He really hope he didn't die of blood loss while he was at St. Bart's, but it looked like he slumbered off to dreamland after consuming the rest of the bourbon judging by the empty bottle and the stench wafting from the man's general direction. The veteran had taken off his gloves and his shoes. His small pack laid abandoned on the floor and the things he had used to stitch himself up was scattered all over the coffee table. The once-white towel he had screamed into earlier was now a sickening shade of brownish-red as he had mopped himself up with it and left the blood to dry. There was a plate of untouched tea (now lukewarm) and biscuits, one of which the detective swiped and shoved into his mouth.

"John."

Sherlock tried shaking him again. The blond stirred slightly, but continued to sleep. The detective gave up and rolled him over so that his right arm hung off the edge of the couch, deciding to administer the blood himself. He did have knowledge with needles, so it wouldn't be that difficult. He strung up the pack on the hook an upside down hanger he had collected from his closet and dragged over the coat rack for a makeshift IV pole. He hung the blood pack on a lower thick wooden protrusion and set up the tube and IV needle by connecting the tube hanging from the bag to the one with the needle. He then grabbed the abandoned shoelace on the table John had used on his leg earlier and tied it around the stranger's arm to create a pseudo-tourniquet. He rubbed some disinfectant he had nicked from the hospital and then slid the needle into the man's vein (which he had to poke around for) and placed some gauze on, wrapping a bandage around it. He made sure it was secure and working, then yawned, gravitating towards his room.

"Captain," the man next to him grunted. John slowly opened his eyes and tried to move his arms, but he found that he couldn't. The two men's hands' were tied and they were hanging on hooks; their bodies were dangling and their toes were barely grazing the dirt below them. The pain from his shoulder was excruciating as a bullet was still lodged in his flesh.

"Watson," he reiterated, trying to bump him awake.

"Wha-where are we?" John forced the words out of his parched mouth.

The soldier next to him tried to shrug. "I think...we were captured by insurgents."

The two men could barely make out the room. It was as if they were in a cave, perhaps a tunnel deep underground, and only a sliver of light was showing through cracks in a ragged door in front of him.

John turned his head to look at the general. His eye was in bad shape; he knew it was a loss, but he couldn't help but to cringe at the sharp piece of metal protruding from the cloths he had wrapped around to keep the eye steady. "Shit," he accidentally whispered aloud. "What happened to my unit?" he asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from the general's mouth.

"They're all dead, Watson," he said quietly. The general was there to observe their platoon when the insurgents attacked. Since John was within his vicinity, he grabbed the army doctor who was tending to a wounded soldier and was a valuable resource who must be saved at all costs, to lead him away when they were bombarded. It was clear there were no survivors, so without a choice, he and Captain Watson tried to escape on foot. That's when a tank blew up and flung shrapnel everywhere, and unfortunately, the general got the brunt of it.

"We need to get off of these hooks. I need to take care of your eye, General," John said dutifully, ever the army doctor.

"No, I think we're past titles. Call me Sebastian," he responded.

A/N:
I was really excited while I was writing this. Lol
It's also a day late because we're moving soon and we've been sorting through junk and throwing it out.
Oh! Also, as I was typing this, I felt an earthquake! Granted, it was for a second, but it was kind of disconcerting because I've never experienced one. haha /end of random notes
And as always:
Thank you so much for reading!