Playing the Fool
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Chapter Three

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It was the first night John spent back at Baker Street since the incident. Three months. That is how long the doctor allowed the echoes of Sherlock Holmes to haunt him before he decided that it was time to let go. At least, that's what he told himself as he unlocked the door and crept up the steps.

The flat had changed in his absence. It didn't feel like home. Everything belonging to Sherlock had been moved into the detective's room ages ago. John heard that Mycroft's people had clearly labeled every container so that there was no chance of something accidently reacting with something else. John thought it was a joke until he they made an MSDS catalogue with corresponding stickers incase John needed to fetch anything.

The lack of Sherlock's rubbish made the common room bare. John felt out of place now that he didn't have to walk around bins of post-dissected material and poorly placed mannequins. He walked up to the windows, glad that they still retained some familiarity, before he drew the curtains and opened them. The afternoon light poured in and highlighted corners and edges John had nearly forgotten – the smiley face attracted his attention almost immediately, and he looked away ashamed.

There was a fine layer of dust covering everything since Mrs. Hudson had fallen ill some days ago. It was part of the reason John wanted to return to 221B, since it didn't look like she was getting any better. From the ten minutes he spent examining her in the hallway, the doctor concluded that it was most probably pneumonia. He forced her to go to bed and promised that he'd check in on her every few hours. She protested of course, but John wouldn't hear anything she said.

"I'm not losing you too," was all he muttered in the end.

A small seed of guilt embedded itself at the doctor's core when he saw the effect the words had on the older woman. Immediately she did as she was asked and slipped off to bed like a scolded child. Meanwhile, John had gone upstairs to finish settling in.

After an hour of silently puttering around, the doctor turned on the telly to break the melancholy atmosphere that drifted in like a heavy fog. Cheerful voices welcomed him as a comedy sketch started; John pried his eyes away from the shifting camera angles to go and make himself a cup of tea.

Every time John left the room, he almost expected the little Sherlock voice that was developing in his head to ask him where he was going, what he was doing or if he could make two of whatever John was throwing together. It stung having to force himself to fill the kettle only part-way. Squashing the instinct to grab a second mug made him set down his own with an unhealthy clunk, and he nearly had a row with himself for taking out the sugar even though he liked his tea without.

John took his cup to the common room and threw himself down in front of the television to distract himself from the world around him. Shortly after the tea went cold, night commenced, and John didn't feel comfortable leaving his chair even to go the bathroom. He was quite content to listen to some foxy newscaster, whose name he couldn't quite remember, ramble on about some epidemic in France while his chin started to dip into his chest. He startled himself awake several times, after which he debated moving himself to his old bed. However, before he could reach a decision, his head lolled back and his eyes fluttered shut.

He was standing next to Sherlock on the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the pavement below feeling ill. The air was thicker up here then it should have been, and John struggled to breathe.

"I don't understand."

A breeze ruffled Sherlock's curls, but John couldn't feel it on his face.

"Hardly surprising John - you're playing the fool."

The doctor knew it was impossible, but it seemed like Sherlock was staring at the ground while simultaneously turning his head to give his friend a coy smirk. Something in John caved then. It felt like his heart had swollen up and was trying to burst out of his chest.

John inched closer, trying to balance on the very edge of the roof.

"You consistently refuse to see that is right in front of you." Sherlock watched the people milling around on the street below. There was so much arrogance in the tilt of his head and the set of his lips.

"You. You're right in front of me." John grabbed Sherlock's wrist to stop him from suddenly vaulting off the building on a whim. It felt warm and tangible. For some reason he felt like he wanted to cry, but he didn't know why. He hadn't jumped. Not yet.

"No John. I'm not."

It was then when John became fully aware that he was experiencing a dream. He wanted to savor the moment, hold on to it before Sherlock faded into illusion, but his consciousness was pulling itself back into reality. The dreamscape shifted and John stumbled and whirled his arms to regain balance. His fingers slipped from Sherlock's wrist as he toppled the wrong way off the building. He remembered Sherlock reaching out to him, a cold expression on his face as John plummeted into nothingness.

John woke up with a single gasp and nearly choked on his own saliva. The clock on the mantle read 4am and the doctor rubbed his face feeling like he hadn't slept at all. He abandoned his cold tea, shut off the television and fumbled through the darkness to his old room. He was trying desperately to keep his mind clear and forget about the dream he just had. The last thing he needed was to relapse into depression and fail to be in adequate condition to take care of Mrs. Hudson.

Once John arrived as his destination, he flopped on his bed without changing his clothes. The blankets were chilly and they smelt of mothballs but he didn't care. He wanted to feel nothing again.

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It was All Saint's Day, or as doctors knew it, the second most wretched day to work. Halloween had came and gone, leaving injuries and hang-overs in it's wake. John had promised Samuel Spencer he'd come in to help with the inevitable chaos, but he wasn't expecting so much chaos from a private practice. There were a lot of people who were under the impression that Spencer's Clinic was a walk-in establishment. When John went to inquire about why they didn't refer people to the sign, the receptionist sighed with frustration.

"Every time some shaky old woman comes in off the street, Sam gives them a look over anyway. Most the time they're just dehydrated or lonely… but it doesn't do much for profit know does it?" She snapped and went back to the line up of check-ins that was getting rather testy from whatever ailments were afflicting them.

Meanwhile John said hello to Dr. Spencer as he passed him in the hallway and went to see his first patient who managed to split his lip sometime in the night.

Three patients later, John was giving a physical to an elderly chap with good humor when he heard a commotion in the waiting room. There was an awful lot of shouting and a few terrified gasps. The doctor discarded his gloves and looked to the door with concern.

"Sorry Mr. Ambrose, to you mind if I check-in on the receptionist?" He was wondering if it was a serious medical emergency or if a child just threw up on someone.

"Yes - but I'm not going to stop you. A half-naked man chasing down his doctor wouldn't look to good would it?" He chuckled in good nature, but John knew he was uncomfortable being left in a room with nothing but his underwear.

"I'll be as quick as I can." The doctor smiled reassuringly before slipping out of the examination room and heading down the hallway. However, once he heard the torrent of swearing and sound of breaking porcelain he started to run.

"Rosemary! Go and fetch John would you!" Came the exasperated voice of Dr. Spencer as he tried to restrain a very lively colored man who was sporting a serious looking scalp wound. The man was bleeding everywhere and trying to throw the doctor off. All the while he was screaming about how this clinic wasn't going to serve him because he was a minority. From the look of two broken chairs and a flower pot John assumed he was hostile.

Reflexively John reached for his gun, but mentally slapped himself when he realized he hadn't carried it for nearly four months now – he was going to have to stop this man with his bare hands. John approached, ready to back Dr. Spencer up when the man made his move, but their target became startled at facing two opponents and threw himself backwards into a wall to stun the doctor at his back.

There was a horrible crunching sound and the trill of shattered glass as a diploma fell off the wall, followed by Samuel who had sprawled on top of it.

John took the opportunity to move to the man's side as he recovered from attacking Dr. Spencer. He then grabbed one of the assailant's arms and twisted it behind him to get some purchase before kicking out his knees and sending the man neatly to the floor. He kept control by wrenching the man's arm occasionally to make him listen.

"Sir, you are going to sit here for the next twenty minutes and hope that you can afford the charges that will be pressed against you." John looked up at the dozen scared faces around him and sought out the receptionist. Rosemary made eye contact and rushed for the phone.

"Ambulance first Rosemary… if you could." John said, practically sitting on top of the man. "Are you all right Sam?"

The fallen doctor groaned and chuckled at the same time. "Sliced my hand up pretty bad. Might need a few stitches. I'm going nip in the back and deal with it…"

John laughed. A good honest giggle. Here he was subduing some upstart in the middle of a bloodied clinic, loving every second of it while there were all sorts of people around him horrified. What kind of man was he? Is this what Sherlock felt like when he was on a case?

"Go ahead, I have things covered here. Rosemary, when you get off the phone, can you tell Mr. Ambrose to put his clothes on? This might take awhile…"

It did. It took the ambulance nearly half an hour to show up. Thankfully the police showed up at the same time. They took over from John and eased the colored man into the back of the ambulance, whilst others went around gathering statements from everyone that was in the waiting room. John over heard some of them calling him a hero. Dr. Spencer came back just as the police were taking a few photographs of the blood that was everywhere.

"You all right John? That was quite the show… you got him down in what? Two minutes?" Samuel eyed his colleague with some concern and wonder.

"Used to be a soldier remember? He was injured anyway, don't think he meant any real harm. How's the hand?"

The doctor showed it to John with a painful grimace. "Six stitches… not my best work. I suppose my Uni professor knew what he was saying when he said doctors can't perform surgery on themselves."

His hand looked a mess, but it was nothing Samuel couldn't handle. The pair of them were soon spotted by a cop who wanted an in depth interview. It took a whole hour of questioning, but luckily Rosemary was on the ball and had a kettle going in Spencer's office. She ushered out the patients and started cleaning the floors when Samuel told her to go home instead and that he'd find someone else to deal with the mess. She protested at first, but Samuel was very persuasive.

Soon it was just the two doctors standing in a darkening room as the police left them to clean the aftermath. Samuel frowned and started to sweep up the broken glass and chips of dried blood while John fetched a mop and worked on the floors. He noticed Samuel's medical diploma was stained and ripped from the fall.

"That's going to be hell to replace." He said empathetically.

Samuel smiled and tore it in two. "Nah, it's a fake."

This made John freeze. "Wait… are you telling me…. you're not a real doctor?"

There was a brief moment of awkward silence before Samuel burst out laughing and buckled over. It was a solid minute before he could talk between his hysterics.

"You're face! My god your face!" He puffed and wiped tears from his eyes. "Of course I'm a real doctor! What sort of idiot would keep his real diploma in the waiting room of his clinic? Good god…"

John gave a hazy smile. He felt like a bit of an idiot. "It's a good fake though…"

'The real one is safe and sound at home." He threw out the glass and the paper into the rubbish bin. "I wish I had a camera for that expression you gave me. Hilarious. I have to tell Matty about it, though she's going to tear a strip off me for what happened. Not going to be able to do the dishes for awhile…"

John laughed did a final mop of the ground before wheeling the bucket down the hall. He poured out the murky contents, amused to see such a strange pink color in the sink. On his way back he grabbed his jacket and his briefcase from his make-shift office.

"Want a ride home? I think you deserve one." Dr. Spencer said as he locked up the clinic behind them and headed to his car.

John declined the kind offer and opted instead to walk home. It was one of the highlights of his day. There was still nothing waiting for him at 221B and the night air was good for him. When he did arrive some hours later, Mrs. Hudson had suggested he get himself a cat since the frown on his face looked set in stone.

"I don't like the thought of you alone up there all the time."

"I'm fine Mrs. Hudson. Truly." He started his ascension but halted when Mrs. Hudson came to the first step.

"You don't have to stay here on my account you know…" There was a catch in her voice which made John slowly come back down the stairs and take her hands in his. Her eyes were shining and John could see the anxiety hidden deep within them. She was a woman who didn't like being left alone.

"I know." He said simply before patting her hand and going back upstairs.

He was going to race her to see who would brew the extra cup of tea first.

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Author's Notes:

Sorry it's slow, but I need to get the set-up right or else it will make so sense once the plot starts moving - which it's going to in the next chaper. It's like a rollercoaster ride; you have to go up first before the fun begins. You're at the top now. Please review. Again, I live for reviews. The more I get the more I pace around worrying that I'm leaving people hanging. That and I know I'm wretched at proof-reading so having those of you with keen English skills poke and prod at my work makes me very happy.

Tell me what you like, what you hate, or what you had for breakfast - just review!