A/N: I finally saw a copy of John's CV from Blind Banker and have adjusted dates accordingly. Doesn't change the story, but will be a huge help in the chapter I'm working on now. My apologies for any confusion.
London, April 2004
After years of study made all the more difficult by John's general disinterest in learning by the book, he's now nearly at the end of his FY1 year.
He'd thought the hardest part would be A&E, only to find that on-call is much more of a challenge: thirteen-hour shifts and little supervision. Even so, it takes only a few months and comparatively few mistakes to get his footing; the mistakes are manageable, and manage them he does.
John's a bit surprised to find that there's something about the wards that brings his talents to the fore, and he looks forward to those nights when he's running from bed to bed, flipping through charts, making connections and diagnoses, understanding almost intuitively what needs to be done and who needs to be doing it. John may be small, but when he's on the ward he speaks with an authority that makes people stop and pay attention. Something else he got from his Dad, he reckons.
It takes even less time to discover that he likes the thrill of risk that comes with a tricky diagnosis; likes the adrenaline rush that accompanies an emergency. They bring him alive in a way he never has been before. They make him something more than the quiet homebody he seems - something interesting. Something... electric.
Tonight, though, is one of the slowest shifts he's had to date.
He puts the finishing touches on some stitches (cooking accident, to judge from the non-stop commentary coming from the bloke's girlfriend), then sends the pair (young, working-class, obviously in lust, if not love) on their way. John quietly gathers up his paperwork and starts to follow down the corridor. When he looks up, he catches them sharing a kiss.
And not just any kiss; this is a good one - too good, it might be said, for public consumption. A press of bodies against a far wall. A bit of tongue, a nip, a growl, and clutching hands.
John reddens and coughs softly into a curled fist. They look up - she in embarrassment, he with a lascivious grin - and John gives them his soon-to-be-patented 'behave, now' look. The boy rolls his eyes and takes the girl by the hand, dragging her out into the night with him.
And John, watching them go, wants what they have. That heedless passion, lips against his own. Skin against warm, welcoming skin, telling him that, for now, he's not alone in the world. John's pushed away the longing for so many years that it's got lost under a sensible face and worn shirts and faded jeans, and he doesn't know how to bring it out into the open. His body sends out no beacon; in the absence of a crisis he's simply plain, obscure John Watson, and there are nights spent alone in his bed when he thinks he may go mad from it.