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

The Good Doctor
Chapter 11

Poison Pill

Groggily, John slowly woke and looked around at his surroundings as his head pounded against his temples. He pushed a blanket off his body, not knowing where it came from. His vision was going in and out of focus, making it difficult to discern where he was, nonetheless remember what had happened. As it cleared, adrenaline began kicking in; his time in Afghanistan had honed his survival instincts, forcing him to assess his situation and locate resources in case of an impending attack. All he could see was that he was in someone's home, specifically a flat. There was an old wooden coffee table next to him littered with medicinal supplies, an empty liquor bottle, and a few science magazines as well as old papers that probably should have been thrown out by now. There was a fireplace on the other side of the room opposite to him, letters tossed carelessly on the mantle atop. A desk was on the wall adjacent to the fireplace with stacks and stacks of books, papers, and odd things John had never seen before. There was a great big skeleton head of what looked like a bull, headphones stuck on as if the deceased animal was listening to music even in its death. The book shelves located behind the desk was filled to the brim with all sorts of books: classic literature, scientific journals and articles, criminal psychology, history, and more.

Once his initial sleepiness wore off, he felt waves of pain wash over his ribs and his leg and became frozen in shock. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths, trying to will himself to overcome the pain. The doctor felt a pinching sensation on his right arm that was currently hanging off of the edge of the couch and realized there was an IV needle stuck in his vein. He followed the line up to an empty pouch of blood that was hanging on an upside down hanger which in turn, was hanging on a coat rack. He grabbed the needle with his left hand and ripped it out, tossing it to the side on the floor. Grunting, the blond attempted to sit up, but could not. Instead, he was met with searing pain that ripped through his flesh and groaned at the throbbing sensation that began as he lightly fingered the tender spots with his fingers.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a sleepy voice called out from beyond the kitchen. John lifted his head slightly off of the couch to see who had spoken and caught sight of a yawning, tall, lithe man with dark tousled curls. He was in the process of slipping on a navy blue robe over his grey cotton shirt and pale blue pajama trousers that had darker blue lines running vertically along the length which gave the man the illusion of having very long legs (not that he needed it; the man was definitely blessed with more heighth than John himself).

John squinted his eyes, trying to recall the stranger's name. He knew they had met before (and even if he didn't, it was evident they certainly had as he was most likely residing in the man's flat). "Sh..Sherly? Sherlock? Something like that, yeah?" he replied hoarsely, noticing how parched his throat was. He tried to swallow some spit, but his mouth felt like he had stuffed cotton in it. At the mention of the former, the dark-haired man grimaced a bit, but quickly shook it off. He strode across the room with an air of confidence as his open robe billowed behind him with his bare feet padding across the wood floor and promptly took a seat in an armchair that was facing the couch the doctor was occupying.

"Hm. Yes, Sherlock. John, correct?" he asked as the blond nodded, watching Sherlock pull the sides of his robes closer to his person. "I am surprised you are conscious. Injuries like that coupled with blood loss usually requires more time to recover, however," he paused, eyeing the man before him,"I assume your body has become accustomed to being on guard at all times, even in times of great duress due to your time in Afghanistan."

John gave him an impressed look and then turned his attention to his wounds as he lifted his black under armour shirt to take a look at the state of his injuries. Fortunately, the injury he had sustained with the dagger (or was it a knife? he wondered), was more of a flesh wound that had luckily punctured between two ribs and had not hit his lungs or anything vital. After examining his careful stitching, he moved on to the real problem: his leg. Since he had torn his trousers the night before, he took a gander through the hole and lifted the gauze he had piled atop. It was in the beginning stages of healing and perhaps maybe for the first time in his life, John was thankful he had chosen to become a trauma surgeon. His deft fingers had done an excellent job, even though he had performed what was essentially surgery on himself without any anesthesia. That's when he remembered he had drunk bourbon the night before, explaining why his mouth was so dry and his head feeling like someone was repeatedly hammering blows to the head.

"W-water, please," he said as he leaned his head back onto the couch. Sherlock, the man's name as he correctly recalled, stood up from his resting position and walked over to the kitchen. However, unlike before, he walked rather sloppily as he scratched his back while he yawned again, dragging his feet across the floor. John heard clanks of glass and pots, a small explosion followed by an inteligible expletive, the sound of running water, and finally, footsteps signaling the return of the stranger. He held it out to the doctor who had sort of propped himself up on the arm rest at one end of the couch as much as he could. He gratefully took it and drank it slowly at first, but ended up gulping it all down in four gulps.

"Where am I?" he asked once finished with his glass.

"My flat. 221B Baker Street. London," Sherlock tersely replied as he turned on the telly. The news channel was broadcasting an image of John's face, not explicitly mentioning why but asking for any information regarding the ex-army medical doctor. The veteran suddenly dug into one of his pockets and pulled out his cellphone. To his dismay, it was broken. He must had landed on it when he fell in the park the night before. He was in trouble, perhaps a word that was a great understatement.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled out, startling John who jumped at the sudden exclamation. "Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled again. This time, the men heard thundering up the stairs.

"Sherlock, what is it?" a kindly looking, but irritated woman, asked.

"Breakfast, please. There's nothing in the fridge," he said calmly without giving her so much as a glance as his eyes were glued to the television screen.

The woman-Mrs. Hudson-huffed. "I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock," she said as she walked over the fridge and opened it. She immediately screamed and shut the door. "Sherlock! Why is there a-a head inside!"

"Oh that?" Sherlock boredly called over his shoulder. "That's part of an experiment. Do please restrain yourself from touching it."

John raised an eyebrow. He wasn't serious, was he? An actual human head? At John's face, Sherlock scoffed and added, "Relax. It's from St. Bart's. An old cadaver used for medical students. I'm merely...borrowing it for the time being."

"That's stealing," John pointed out.

Sherlock darted his eyes towards the doctor. "And this is coming from a man who illegally assaults and stalks people for money. Hm."

The blond was about to retort when he faltered, blinking his eyes a couple times. "That's...that's different," he said lamely. As strong as his moral character was, he himself had some questionable methods, but it was for the greater good.

"Yes, yes. I'm sure." The consulting detective switched the television off and raised his legs onto the armchair and drummed his knees with his long, spindly fingers, bored of watching the screen. Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, was rummaging through pots in the kitchen, yelling Sherlock's name every time she found something strange, and eventually ended up storming downstairs. "I'll get you boys something from down here," she explained, shaking her head as she walked past them. The doctor couldn't help but wonder what horrors awaited unsuspecting victims in the kitchen just beyond the strange man staring at him.

Gingerly, John pushed himself upright into a sitting position. He was fine sitting as his stomach wasn't the area with the injury, but he had to take great precaution not to jostle himself around too much. Ribs were the location of one of the more severe areas of pain on the human body when injured, thus, he had to make sure the wound wouldn't get infected or inflammed or else he would be in another world of pain. Getting shot in Afghanistan was no walk in the ballpark, but neither was the injury on his leg. He know the bullet was pretty shallow and that his bone wasn't nicked. All in all, he was pretty fortunate with the wounds inflicted upon him. It could have been worse.

The doctor glanced at the blood-stained watch on his hand and spit on it, wiping it off on his shirt. It was approximately noon; he couldn't go back to his own flat as he was almost certain the police had already stormed in and searched every inch. He mentally patted himself on the back, grateful for his paranoia. He was wearing everything that linked him to any mercenary acts including all of his weapons and gadgets: his throwing knives and daggers, a Walther PPK, a colt, extra ammunition, a couple smoke bombs, his top-of-the-line night vision goggles, a hand-held scope, and a small pistol that he usually strapped around his ankle just in case. His pocket knife (which also contained lock-picking tools) was safe in his pocket. The only thing that could possibly incriminate him in his apartment was his laptop, but he had rigged it so it could destroy all contents remotely. On that note, he realized he had to do that first.

"Do you have a computer I can borrow?" he asked the detective. Sherlock was about to tell him to get it himself because it was in his bedroom-too far a walk in his opinion-when he remembered the mercenary in front of him was a bit incapacitated at the moment, so he reluctantly retrieved it. John reached under the neckline of his shirt and pulled out a necklace. On it hung a couple dog tags from his miltary days, a small, thin, glass square that held a tiny chunk of what looked like a part of a bullet, and a USB. He lifted it up and off of his neck and plugged it into the laptop Sherlock handed to him. A program immediately popped up and he was allowed access to his laptop. He turned on his own computer's webcam and to his horror (despite his suspicion which proved to be correct), a few lab technicians were splayed on the screen, hovering in front of the camera. Squinting his eyes, he stared at the identification card of the man who sat directly in front of the screen, noting that yes, indeed, his computer was taken as evidence by Scotland Yard.

"Anything?" a voice called out. The three men in front of the screen turned their heads to the left.

"No, not yet. We're still running some tests. This Watson bloke's a pretty good hacker; we haven't been able to get it past the log in page yet," one of them told the voice.

"Well hurry it up. I need Sherlock to take a look so he can get a reading off of it, or whatever he does. Anderson's men aren't done either. Honestly, the rate at what you lot are going at, I wouldn't be surprised if we never find him," the irate voice went on.

"Sorry, detective inspector," another man piped up.

"Don't be sorry. Be proactive. Hurry. Go or I'm going to kick you off this case and find someone who can actually do their job," he grumbled.

"It seems like Lestrade is in charge of your case," Sherlock said, pulling out his right hand from his robe pocket and pointing at the screen at a sliver of peppered hair in the corner as John jumped for the second time that day.

He hadn't noticed but Sherlock's face was literally inches from his own as he was leaning down, watching the screen the entire time. He most certainly lacked the understanding of the fundemental concept of personal space. When he had stuck his face in the screen, the doctor had no idea as John was too absorbed in observing the technicians to pay attention.

"Will you stop doing that?" he asked.

The man ignored him.

"Looks like I'll be on your case as well," Sherlock said, back in the position he was when he first leaned over.

John stopped paying attention to the men and started typing out code at an agonizingly slow pace on a program he had developed. He wasn't a master at hacking, but with what knowledge he did have, he could at least do this much. With each letter John typed, Sherlock became a bit more irriated.

"For a seemingly above average hacker, your typing skills are obsolete," he griped.

This time, John ignored him. Growing bored with watching him peck out keys at a snail's pace, Sherlock sat down next to him and grabbed a random newspaper on the table with his toes as his hands were still in his pockets. He tossed it in the air and caught it, opening it to a section he had dog-eared.

"Sherlock, I brought up some tea and sandwiches. I hope you don't mind egg salad, dear," Mrs. Hudson said to John as she brought up a tray, the same tea set that was on the table yesterday night.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. I'm Dr. John Watson. I'm sorry I haven't formally introduced myself. I apologize for yesterday, and...for making a mess," he said, staring at the blood-stained white towel on the table, "Lovely meeting you," he continued, a bit guilty for barking orders at her when they first met. Although, considering the circumstances, he thought she would understand. He also suspected that she brought up the blanket he had shoved aside earlier when she retrieved the tea tray.

The landlady began setting everything down in the same spot as the night before. Sherlock immediately reached for a sandwich. "Oh, that's alright, dear. I'm glad Sherlock finally has some company," she chuckled, patting the consulting detective's shoulder who continued to consume the sandwich with fervor. John's stomach grumbled audibly. "Eat up. You need your strength," she said, not bothering to inquire as to why a bleeding stranger was brought into her home at such an odd hour. That fact alone made John curious as to what must have aspired for her to be so callous to such things. Who was Sherlock Holmes and what did he do?

That name-it rang a bell. He was sure he had heard that name before; the man also looked familiar. John tried racking his brain as he ate and politely participated in small talk with the two. Well, it was more like conversing only with Mrs. Hudson with occasional murmurs and nods from the detective who seemed to be focusing his thoughts elsewhere. From the bedroom by the kitchen, a shrill telephone ringtone went off. The slender man wandered off to his room to answer it. Mrs. Hudson left to go back downstairs, leaving John alone sitting in tattered and bloody clothes. Sherlock returned, cellphone in hand and picked up his tea.

"Um, do you have any clothes I can wear?" John asked. Sherlock peered at him over the rim of the cup. Still drinking, he turned around and walked back to his room, returning with a beige jumper and a pair of dark blue, plaid flannel pajama trousers. It was clear that Sherlock's clothes would be too long on John's short frame and probably too small around the waistband due to his lanky figure, hence the man's decision to bring him trousers with an elastic band. John was probably not going anywhere at this point as the police were scoping the entire city and then some for him. The doctor took the clothes and began changing while Sherlock grabbed his laptop and watched the technical team through the mercenary's laptop webcam as the blond struggled with his clothes behind him.

John had gotten the jumper on with no problem, but he was having a difficult time lifting his leg as with each inch he moved it, it hurt like hell. He almost toppled over at one point, but managed to stay upright by hopping up and down on one foot. He pushed through the pain and successfully got it on then moved towards the detective to peer at the screen. He wondered why his remote wipe hadn't worked before they were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson when he realized he had forgotten to press 'enter'. He reached over Sherlock's shoulder and tapped the key. The program immediately ran a series of code inteligible to the detective and read 'done' at the end.

"Wha-what's going on? Oh bloody hell! I think someone's doing a remote wipe!" one of the technicians cried out, trying to save the computer from essentially self-destructing. The other two immediately scrambled over and caught sight of strange symbols filling up the screen.

"Lestrade's going to kill us!" a pale-faced man who looked no older than thirty groaned as another frantically clicked the mouse futilely until the contents distorted and disappeared.

They sat in shock, staring at a blank screen and started coughing as smoke billowed out from the built-in vents. The computer was dying and there was no way to retrieve the information. They had nothing in hand as they couldn't even get past the encryptions on the log-in page. The program on Sherlock's laptop screen that was streaming through the webcam went blank as John's own finally died.

"I fried the hardware," John explained as he unplugged his USB, returning it to his necklace. "I added in tiny devices that destroyed the hard drive after I released the command code to erase my data, just in case." His paranoid nature forced him to make safety precautions that he had failed to follow on his excursions as The Doctor; perhaps it was the adrenaline and the excitement of it all that blinded him to reality.

"They should have x-rayed it," Sherlock mentioned, closing the top portion of the computer. That's what he would have done before starting any type of attempt to analyze it. Immediately, the consulting detective's phone started ringing.

"Sherlock Holmes," the detective curtly stated as he answered the call.

"Sherlock! Get down here now. We need your help," John heard a voice order. The detective rolled his eyes.

"If this has anything to do with the murder in the park yesterday, I am certainly not interested," he answered and abruptly hung up without an explanation. The blond eyed the phone.

"Are you sure you can..do that?"

"Do what?"

"You know, just hang up on him?" John asked. Sherlock ignored him and returned to his room. John sipped on his cup of tea, now lukewarm, and wondered what his next move should be. Several moments later, the detective walked back out clad in a white dress shirt and jeans as he held onto a blue cotton scarf. He was in the process of putting on a large, heavy, black military coat when he said, "Going out for a bit. If you need anything Mrs. Hudson's downstairs," leaving John to his own device.

The blond needed to get out and about, but it was impossible with the state of his leg. He could hobble around, but he needed a cane which was unfortunately laying against a dresser back in his apartment which he was sure was under close surveillance. He would be a fool to attempt to return. It didn't matter. Nothing there was really of any importance to him. It was just another apartment where he resided, nothing more, nothing less.

Something was bothering him ever since yesterday night, a niggling feeling in the back of his mind, but he couldn't pinpoint it. He brushed the feeling off and looked around the room and decided it was now or never. He'd have to start trying to physically stand up sometime, although, if it were anyone else, his medical advice would be to stay put and rest, but he was in no position to sit on the couch all day, not even attempting to start digging himself out of the hole he was thrust into. Usually at this time he would be at work...

Work.

Andrew.

John rubbed his face; he definitely can't go back to the hospital. Ever. He felt guilty for leaving his patients, especially the woman who went through a series of surgeries he had completed probably last week or so and even more so for the young intern he was rather fond of, like the little brother he never had. The sole reason why John had accepted the position at the tiny hospital (other than the amount of leeway that enabled his night time duties) was to prevent this sort of relationship from happening.

As his thoughts wandered, John's mind replayed the events from last night.

Mary! Oh, how had he forgotten! That was the thing that was bothering him. Oh God, he thought, she must be confused at the news. That and the lack of communication on his part due to his broken cellphone was probably a very worrisome thing for the insomniac. He needed to clear his name; that much he was determined to do.

With great fervor, John gripped the right armrest and carefully pushed down to lift himself up. He wobbled over a little bit and grit his teeth when a wave of pain shot through his thigh. He looked down at the floor and caught sight of a discarded bloody scarf not unlike the one Sherlock had put on just moments before. John used his toes on his left leg and slid it over to him on the wood floor. He picked it up and tied it around his right leg to apply pressure, hopefully to ease the pain that his movements caused.

"Alright. You can do this," he muttered to himself. He had done it before; just not in a circumstance with an actual physical injury. His recurring limp that haunted his limb forced him to take it slow on bad days, just as he was doing at the moment. The doctor took a tiny step forward and bit his lower lip to keep from crying out in pain. He needed a cane.

He needed his cane.

A/N:
If you guys didn't know, I post up announcements on my profile, just fyi.
Sorry I didn't update! I moved over the weekend and I have no internet until the 16th, I believe. I also had two tests, an art project, and a major essay last week. T^T It was absolutely crazy.
I read all your reviews and see all the alerts and favorite updates and I don't know if you want me to comment back, or don't because it might be like spamming LOL, but I love you guys so much, even just for reading the first chapter. haha

Thank you for reading! You guys are the absolute best!