So it's been really great to hear from you guys and to see the response this has gotten already! I probably should have mentioned this earlier that yea, the title is a reference to the Doctor Who episode Turn Left. While the plot device is similar, it is not the same person and I promise there will actually be a purpose to it's usage, not just a cool episode.

Anyway please please please tell me what you think! And thanks again!

The room was familiar to John, as he'd studied and autopsied many a body in the morgue of St. Bart's Hospital in his school days. The sheet covered mass on the gurney in the center of the room was clearly a body, which was revealed as the brunette lab coat wearing woman pulled back the sheet. She mumbled something about when the body had come in, how she'd known him. Not very confident, that one, John thought.

The man she was mumbling to, however, exuded confidence from every pore. He didn't wear a lab coat or gloves, just a long black coat, the collar turned up. His pale skin contrasted sharply with his black curly hair. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back, his blue eyes surveying the room. He stood with solid resolve, someone who knew what he wanted. He couldn't be the woman's supervisor; his lack of medical dress attested to that. He held his body with complete control, but did not seem to be military either. Everything in the room paled in comparison to this man. Even the woman couldn't take her eyes off him. An obvious crush, but somehow he took no notice. There was something there, John could sense it.

The man seemed to be drawing John towards him. His voice was deep, not husky, almost hypnotic. John was so enthralled by the few words he had spoken that it took him a moment before he realized what those words had actually been.

"We'll start with the riding crop."

John did a double take and watched in confused horror as the man picked up a riding crop and began beating the body vigorously. The crop smacked loudly against flesh with each blow. It echoed around the room and faded into the next strike. The woman had moved outside to the observation window. She watched with a repressed smile, her eyes never leaving the dark haired man. She seemingly found nothing wrong with the events that were unfolding in front of her.

John couldn't help but recognize the man's strength. He had to have some muscles hiding under that bulky coat of his. He could almost imagine- wait what was he thinking? The man stopped whipping the body and started out the door. Watson hurried to follow his longer strides. As he followed he heard the man say "Call me with what bruises form in the next 20 minutes. A man's alibi depends on it". The man confidently sauntered out the door and as the door slammed in Watson's face, he awoke.

John swung his legs over the side of his bed, trying to make sense of what he'd just dreamt. Had it been some strange kinky repressed sex dream? It definitely seemed far removed from the ordinary, but then the man had mentioned an alibi. Could the man have been a cop? It would explain the mysteriously authoritative aura he seemingly glowed.

John stood and limped a few feet to the desk against the opposite wall. He sat and searched the drawers for a blank sheet of paper. He finally found one under his gun that he always kept loaded and ready. He grabbed a pencil and began to sketch.

He thought the hair would be the hardest part but it was the eyes. He left a blank space for them as he sketched the man's face, his pointed nose, the sharp cheekbones you could cut yourself on. He drew the collar of that black coat that hid his throat. But the eyes stayed blank. Even the curly mass atop his head had been easier than putting life into those eyes.

Frustrated, John laid down his pencil. The drawing wasn't perfect, and the lack of eyes made it a little creepy for John's taste, but he was shocked at how vividly he could still imagine the man's face. He generally didn't remember his dreams, except when he remembered them far too vividly. But this… this was so much different than anything he'd ever dreamt. It had felt so real. And that man…

Watson picked the pencil up again and sketched one eye, then another. Carefully he shaded the pupils. He shaded and stippled and erased and shaded again, but when he finally gave up, the eyes were still dead. But why did it matter so much to him? It was just a dream.

Yawning, John stood from the desk and set to making his bed. Tight and smooth sheets and clean hospital corners. The army had enforced that, even if he'd originally picked it up in med school. Satisfied, he put away the pencil and debated what to do with the drawing. He finally settled on putting it back in the drawer. For some reason he couldn't force himself to recycle it like his other drawings. He was getting attached to a picture of a man he dreamt beating a body with a riding crop. What would Ella say about that? Watson sighed. Today was going to be another day of apartment hunting. Wearily, he stood and went to shower. It was going to be a long day.

So as you can probably see, we're going to be seeing a few scenes from Sherlock written in here. Sorry if they aren't absolutely perfect but I'll try my best. See you in a few days!