John Watson was an excellent Doctor. In fact John Watson was an exceptional Doctor. Perhaps his academic transcript wouldn't give you that impression. Four A-Levels, three As and a B. His marks at University were high average. On the pieces of paper that the exam boards issued it told the world that John Hamish Watson was okay, but nothing special.
But what makes a Doctor a Doctor and not just a clever bloke with a copy of Gray's Anatomy is something slightly less tangible. Something that Sherlock recognised at once when John limped through the door of St. Bart's. That certain spark of determination. You had to be determined. Life was fatal. As a Doctor, really, your entire job was a futile attempt to postpone the inevitable. But you did it anyway.
The doors of the hospital had snapped open, and outside John could see blue lights and black cars. He looked over the desk at the Triage Nurse.
"Amanda? Have we just had a Station One alert?" He pushed himself up on the counter so he could peer over it. The red phone was silent.
"No John. And they usually let us know if there's a drill."
John turned, just in time to see the ashen faced figure of Mycroft Holmes stride in to the building, flanked on either side by secret service. Armed secret service. One day John was going to have to ask Mycroft what his job actually was.
"Doctor Watson?" Mycroft's voice was even, Icy-calm. This was not going to be good.
"Is Sherlock all right?" Why was John's first thought always for Sherlock?
"Yes. I need you to treat this patient John." There was just the slightest crack as he spoke. Mycroft stepped aside. The ambulance crew were bringing in a gurney, the small figure on it, buried with wires and tubes. John looked back to Mycroft's face. The mask was still there. Just. The eyes were still summer-day blue, but the clouds were gathering behind them. John knew immediately who the tiny scrap of humanity on the Gurney was.
"Mycroft! I'm not a Paediatrician or a Cardiologist. We need to get him to Great Ormond Street. Now."
"No John. You're a Doctor." Whatever short circuit was going on in Mycroft's head, John could not imagine. There seemed to be a lot of faulty wiring in the Holmes family. But essentially Mycroft was right. Treat the patient in front of you.
"Page Mike for me please Amanda." John got the run down from the ambulance crew. His patient was fighting for every breath. An Asthma attack that wouldn't stop, which was now placing too much strain on the boy's heart. John took a deep breath, he had an entire hospital full of medication and equipment, and somehow he didn't think it was going to be enough.
John walked quickly beside the gurney as it was moved in to an emergency room, reading the chart from the ambulance as he went. Reading on the move was a skill he had picked up in the army. Mike met them in the ER and John silently handed him the chart. There was a shake of heads. Mike understood just how many drugs they had already pumped into Nicky's tiny body. The boy's heartbeat was rising. If they didn't do something soon he would go into Cardiac Arrest, and John was almost certain that once that happened there would be nothing he could do. But doing nothing was never an option. As John's brain raced to think of something, he had a vague recollection of one of his first year text books.
"Get me a bucket full of Ice-water. Now!" John shouted at one of the ER nurses, who ran from the room. Mike raised an eyebrow. Mike was another average student. Spent too much time in the bar and not enough on his books. His tutors all said it. But they all knew he'd make a good Doctor.
The nurse arrived back with the ice. John nodded to Mike, and the highly trained staff watched in confusion as Doctor Stamford disconnected the patient's oxygen line, and Doctor Watson picked the patient up and plunged him head first into a bucket of icy water.
It was as though someone had slammed on the brakes. Nicky's heart beat slowed almost instantly. John pulled him out of the ice, spluttering, and Mike reconnected the Oxygen.
"Okay. Call Great Ormond Street let them know we're on our way." John left Mike in charge.
Mycroft was still standing in the foyer, flanked by his bodyguard. Glaring at anyone who came within ten feet of him.
"He's stable. We need to get him to Great Ormond Street. We're not geared up to treat children, they are."
Mycroft was already on his phone, ordering roads to be closed, traffic to be diverted and a Police escort. The earlier emotion John had seen was gone from his face. But John knew it was lurking somewhere.
"Thank you Doctor Watson."
"You're very welcome Mr Holmes." They left it at that. Nothing else needed to be said. Not there.
Twenty four painful hours later Mycroft arrived home. Nicky was stable. Doing well. Asking for Ice Cream. Mycroft knew John had done something unorthodox. He knew by the way the staff, the medical students were all buzzing about it. How Doctor Watson was a genius. Mycroft had expected no less. John Watson would find a hefty bonus in his wages next month. Genius was to be rewarded.
Wearily, brandy in hand, Mycroft climbed the stairs to the top of the house. He had promised Nicky that the next time he visited he would bring Wordsworth for him. The key clicked in the lock. The room was exactly as he had left it. Except that there was a book open on the desk. A book that had been on the Shelves. First year medical text. Nothing remarkable. Except that Mycroft found himself looking at three words highlighted on the page:
Mammalian Dive Reflex.
He closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths of air to steady himself, and very briefly, he thought he felt a hand brush against his cheek.