Chapter 5

04 June, 12:17 Central Africa Time Zone

Gafunzo Project dig site, Gafunzo, Rwanda

The sun was at its zenith, heating the air and turning the hard packed dirt on the ground into dust. Sherlock looked up and shaded his eyes, his gaze locked downfield on the young goalie. Dribbling the football at his feet, he passed it to the player to his left, keeping pace with the young boy. With a swift instep kick, the football sailed through the air, past the arms of the goalie, and into the makeshift goal. The players on the scoring team cheered, raising their arms in the air and running around the pitch. Sherlock celebrated with a small smile, and jogged back up the pitch. He wasn't normally one for exercise, but recognized the both the physical importance of staying fit and also the relief of stress that came with a sustained elevated BPM. He certainly wasn't one for group exercise, usually favoring a solitary swim in UCL's lap pool or long run around his neighborhood. But when a group of young boys from the nearby village had shyly approached the group of researchers taking a lunch break and produced a worn and underinflated football, he shrugged his shoulders and joined the handful of his coworkers who were heading in the direction of an open field in the distance.

The first week on site was going well. The team had arrived close to on time after departing from Kigali and stopping only once to change a flat tire on the van holding their gear. Camp had been erected, the small village of tents sat fifty yards from the excavation site. Each researcher had their own tent: big enough for a single cot, small table, and their luggage. A much larger tent of cream-coloured canvas held their gear and tools, folding tables set up, waiting to receive the first round of excavated material for study. The largest tent, holding even more tables and benches, served as a makeshift common area where the group would take their meals, play cards in the evening, or spread out the papers and computers to work. Across an open, grassy field, several tarps were spread over the partially excavated work site, with another cream canvas tent set up over one end of the site. The first afternoon had been dedicated to setting up camp and preparing for the work that would begin the following day. Early that first morning, the team plotted out the grid that would mark the excavation. Since then, the work had been routine, if a bit slow. The first few days had seen a handful of onlookers coming to camp, but the visitors had been there out of interest, rather than hostility. Some of them had limited French, which allowed Sherlock and the other team members with some handling of the language to communicate, but more often than not the interpreters had to be used.

This afternoon would be the point at which they would begin to excavate some of the first remains and remove them to the tables at camp for further study. Sherlock was cautiously excited – it was always a bit thrilling to extract the first pieces from the ground. The team had taken a break for lunch (peanut butter and honey sandwiches) and were sitting under the shade of a tree at the edge of the site, sipping from their canteens. He had been anxious to get back to work when the children had walked up.

Working closely with a group of relative strangers required an adjustment in Sherlock's attitude about socialization. While he would have normally kept to himself and worked on his own, these sorts of digs required teamwork and cooperation. After his very first dig as a young graduate student, he had realised that there was no way he could get by on these projects if he isolated himself and ignored his fellow researchers. He was fortunate that most of the time these projects only lasted a couple of months, but during that time, he adjusted his habits, erring on the side of polite, yet distant. So, when the footballers had arrived, he had gotten up and followed the team to the makeshift football pitch and joined the game.

Back in the game, Sherlock was watching closely, following the ball, and preparing to intercept the player from the other team that was headed towards him. He reached out with his foot, tapping the ball away. The boy deftly brought the ball back in front of him and continued on towards the goal. This end of the pitch was bordered on one side by a small copse of trees, and as Sherlock ran after the boy, he came into the shade. The boy darted away with the ball, but before Sherlock could pursue him, his foot caught in a raised tree root. He fell to the ground and hit the dirt hard, landing painfully on his right hip, his breath escaping his lungs in a forced rush.

"Nuuuhhh," he moaned as he rolled over to his back. "Bugger." He lay in the dirt for a second, catching his breath back as the erstwhile footballers gathered around him.

"You all right mate?" asked Lincoln reaching out a hand to help him into a sitting position.

"Mmmm," Sherlock breathed through his nose. His hip was pained, and his ankle was already swelling. The real pain though was coming from his right calf, where he felt a trickle of blood. Steeling himself, he looked down his leg towards his ripped trouser leg. The gash wasn't so long, but it was deep and bleeding quite a freely. It was throbbing in time with his heartbeat and he had nothing on hand to staunch the flow of blood. "Bugger," he swore again. The children crowded around made noises in a mix of disgust at the blood and glee at the Sherlock's swearing.

"Can you walk on it?" asked Chas.

"I think so. Does anyone have anything to mop up some of this blood?" Lincoln handed him the bandana that had been tied around his neck.

"It's a might bit sweaty, but don't worry about the blood. I've got some spares in my kit."

Lincoln and Chas reached down and hoisted Sherlock to his feet. He tentatively put weight on the injured leg and bit the inside of his cheek in pain. Bugger again. His hip and ankle were painful and blood continued to flow under his pant leg, but he was able to hobble back towards camp. "Can someone get Molly? I'm not a medic, but I think I may require some stitches," he said, trying to affect an air of placid serenity, while trying not to feel faint.

They made it back to camp and Sherlock sat down heavily on one of the benches in the dining tent, the offending leg stretched out in front of him. Molly, summoned from her tent, sank to the ground next to him and peeled back the ruined trousers. "Definitely stitches," she said, pressing a gauze pad to the gash. "I haven't sewn someone up in years, though. And this isn't exactly a sterile environment," she brushed her bangs back from her face. "What did you cut it on?"

Sherlock sucked in a breath as she applied more pressure to stop the bleeding. "A bloody stick. I tripped over a tree root and landed on a bloody stick."

Lestrade had joined the group of researchers gathered around the table. "There's a small hospital not twenty minutes up the road. Does he need to go there?"

Molly nodded. "That would probably be best. Under better circumstances I'd stitch you up myself, but with a hospital so close by, you may as well go there." She affixed a fresh gauze pad to his leg with some medical tape.

"Let me go start up the van," said Lestrade.

Molly stood up. "Well as your medic, I suppose I'll tag along," she laughed lightly.

Sherlock grumbled as he got to his feet again. Perfect. He thought. Not even a week into the project and I've gone and made a ponce of myself. Let's make it a field trip! Molly took his arm to help him into the passenger's seat of the van, but he pulled away sharply. "I'm not an invalid." He was embarrassed to be looking so weak.

"I know, Sherlock," said Molly soothingly as she shut the van door on him. Lestrade set off down the road, seemingly driving into every pothole as he went. Sherlock swore again, pain reverberating the length of his leg. "Could you perhaps not hit every stone and bump, please?" He laughed and they bounced into another divot in the road. Sherlock was sure he saw a satisfied grin on his Lestrade's face as he emphatically swore again.

04 June, 12:17 Central Africa Time Zone

Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda

John was energized. So far today they had discharged seven healthy patients and only two new ones had been admitted. A morning in the black was a good one. He bent down over the prone form of a male patient in his forties. The man had been admitted four days ago with the beginnings of cholera: fever, diarrhea, and severe dehydration. Now, he was smiling, weakly, but smiling all the same. John helped him into a sitting position, reclining against his pillows.

"Would you like to try and sip some water?" John asked in French.

"Merci, docteur," the man said, reaching for the cup the nurse passed him.

"Take it slowly," John said, putting his hand on the man's shoulder. "If this sits well with you, we can try a bit of dry toast for lunch. How does that sound?" He turned to the nurse to make sure she had heard. She nodded at John, making a note in the chart and he turned to the next patient.

The remainder of the morning passed as just as easily. John went from ward to ward, making the rounds of all his patients. Checking to see how they faired over night, who had passed through the worst of the infection and simply needed hydrating and who still had a long road to recovery. A few new patients came in shortly before John was due to take his lunch break. Two broken fingers were splinted and one infected spider bite was lanced and it was time for lunch.

John was standing at the nurses station, signing some charts before he headed down the canteen. Behind him, someone cleared their throat.

"If you're here to be seen, please sign in on the sheet over there," said John in French, gesturing to the clipboard with his biro without turning around.

"Pardon, but I believe I need to see a doctor," replied a deep voice, the English accent catching John off guard. He straightened up and turned to face the fellow Englishman behind him. The scowl on the man's face was tense, but pronounced. The irate fellow Englishman, he corrected. John swept his eyes over the man, looking for any obvious injury and catching sight of his ripped and bloody trousers. He knelt down at the man's feet and carefully peeled back the fabric, revealing the hastily applied gauze dressing.

"Ah," John said looking up at Sherlock. "Yes, I suppose you do need to see a doctor. Why don't you follow me?" He led Sherlock down the hall to an empty exam room. "Have a seat Mr..."

"Doctor Holmes," said Sherlock, his scowl becoming even fiercer. He eased back onto the gurney, bracing himself on his uninjured leg.

"My apologies, Doctor Holmes." John rolled his eyes as he turned to retrieve some nitrile gloves from the cabinet behind him. "So what happened here?"

"Football injury," Sherlock responded tersely.

"Ah, well the local children do tend to play a bit rougher than we Brits are used to," John smiled and picked up a pair of large surgical scissors. He gestured to Sherlock's ruined trousers with them. "Do you mind?" Sherlock shrugged and John cut away the fabric. He worked in silence for a few minutes, peeling away the gauze and tape and carefully prodding the gash to ascertain the depth. Sherlock inhaled sharply through his teeth. "Sorry."

"It's all right," Sherlock said tightly. John bent back to the leg, working a little bit more gently.

"So, Dr. Holmes—"

"Sherlock."

"So, Sher— wait." He looked up. "Sherlock? Is that really your name?"

"It's a family name," he said, picking an imaginary piece of lint of his sleeve.

John laughed. "So, Sherlock. What brings a man such as yourself to this neck of the woods?"

"Research. I'm at a dig site over in Gafunzo."

"I had heard that some academics had wandered into rural Rwanda, but I hadn't heard that they were British expats." Sherlock winced and gave a pained noise as John began to irrigate the wound. He put his hand on Sherlock's leg to steady it. The flesh under his fingers was warm and firm, and the hair dark and curly. The shin muscles were tensed in shock, but strong nonetheless. "How long have you been in Rwanda?"

"Ten days."

"Oh really? And how are you liking it so far?" he asked as he administered a local anesthetic.

"I'm finding it very painful."

"The anesthetic should be working in a moment and then I can suture you up," John said. "It's not usually so dangerous a place. Just try and stay away from roving bands of football hooligans."

When there was no response, John looked up and caught Sherlock regarding him with luminescent grey-blue eyes.

"What happened during your tour in Afghanistan that set you on this vigilante mission to save lives?" Sherlock asked abruptly. His tone was almost accusatory.

"I beg your pardon?" John was taken aback by this sudden and unbelievably personal turn in the conversation.

"Well it's obvious you served in the military. And it's quite clear you're on some sort of personal mission."

"But what do you mean 'vigilante'? How do you know I'm not just here because I actually enjoy helping people? And how did you know I served in Afghanistan?" his hackles were raised at being pinned so easily, and by a total stranger no less. As a result, when he poked at the leg wound in order to check that the local anesthetic was working, he did it a little more forcefully than he should have. "And how is that any of your business anyway?"

Sherlock pointed at the name badge on John's chest. "I saw your name on the patient board, Dr. Watson, above the registration desk. You've seen a lot of patients today, taken some of the more difficult and involved cases, including the only surgery in the last week. You have also seen almost double the number of patients than most of the other doctors on the board. You trend more to the triage cases, over the Cholera, indicating the trauma work is what you enjoy and are comfortable with. You have a soldier's haircut, and your posture indicates military. Given your approximate age I'd deduce you served four, maybe five years? Now why would someone, who had sewn up soldiers for half a decade be working in the remote hills of Rwanda?" He paused, giving John a chance to say something. When he didn't, he plowed on.

"I say, 'vigilante,' because the number of patients you have seen already today, coupled with the dark circles under your eyes, indicate that you work long hours, longer than perhaps necessary, and work harder to see as many patients as you can."

"And Afghanistan?" was all John could think to say in response.

"Lucky guess, I suppose," said Sherlock. He pursed his lips, contemplating John. "I suppose it's not any of my business why you're here. I was merely attempting to make conversation."

"Well maybe you should bloody well keep your assumptions to yourself next time, hmm? Maybe a lull in the conversation wouldn't be such a bad thing?" John snapped.

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat as John bent over his leg again and began suturing up the wound. They were both silent as he worked, John making tidy stitches. Who the hell did this bloke think he was? Making unfounded assumptions about him and his motives. Well, maybe not so unfounded. Everything he had said was the truth, or very nearly. John didn't think he had met anyone as rude or arrogant as this Sherlock Holmes. He had caused John to lose his temper and now he was extremely embarrassed. He always had been able to keep a cool head and almost never lost it. John's bedside manner was impeccable, he knew it was. But this man, this rude, posh, tall, handsome man had forced him to shout.

That last thought made him pause, forceps frozen in midair. After a moment, Sherlock's leg twitched beneath his hands and brought him back to himself. Handsome? He sat up to pluck a fresh gauze pad from the tray on his left, and using this movement as a cover, he stole a glance at the pale, angular face. Definitely handsome. He had always been able to physically appreciate both men and women, and was familiar with both. In some alternate universe, perhaps he and Mattie would have taken their relationship to the next level, but in this world the timing had never been right.

His heart gave a small twist as he thought of his childhood friend. In the years since his death, John had learned to live without Matt. He had created a new life for himself, practicing medicine, spending time with his mum, his sister Harry, and her partner Clara, playing with his nieces, finding new hobbies. He knew that Matt would want him to move on with his life, make new friends and find someone else to love. How had he gotten to thinking about Matt?

He tied the last suture and clipped the line. "All done," he announced, straightening up. Sherlock was still scowling down at him, arms crossed, eyes watching him closely. John reached for a tube of antibac ointment, smearing some carefully on the wound with a cotton tipped applicator. He smoothed a large, adhesive bandage over the stitches, his movements sure but gentle, the way one would touch a spooked horse. He stood, stripping off his nitrile gloves with a snap, tossed them into the rubbish bin, and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms and feet at the ankles in an attempt to appear relaxed.

"How did you know all that?" he asked, looking Sherlock squarely in the eye. He refused to back down from this man.

"I told you, the patient board, your haircut, the – "

"No, I mean how did you come up with all that from those inconsequential details?"

"There's no such thing as an inconsequential detail. I observe things, take note, and deduce."

"Well, I'm sure you're a real riot at parties," John said dryly.

"You think I'm often invited to parties? Would you invite me to one?" John didn't respond. "Point made."

John paused for a minute, gathering his courage. "I'm sorry I swore at you."

"Think nothing of it."

"I don't lose my temper often. I apologize for behaving rudely."

Sherlock arched one eyebrow. "Apology accepted."

John gave him a pointed look and Sherlock stared mutely back at him. The silence stretched.

"If you are waiting for me to apologize for observing and speaking the truth -"

"Apology accepted."

Sherlock spluttered. "I was not apologizing! I don't make a habit of apologizing for pointing out things that are so blatantly obvious." John continued to stare at Sherlock. Then he plucked a Biro from his breast pocket, along with a prescription pad. He scrawled on it, tore off the top page and handed it to Sherlock.

"A light pain medication. Your leg will be sore for about a week. I also noticed your ankle was a bit swollen – it's just bruised. You'll want to ice that and be sure to elevate it tonight. The meds will help with the pain there as well. Try and stay off your feet the next couple of days while sutures begin to heal. I did an excellent job stitching that up so you won't scar too much, and I'll be right pissed if you tear the stitches and ruin my handiwork."

"So no more football?"

"Try and stay off the pitch, at least for the next month." John pushed away from the counter, coming to stand at the end of the gurney at Sherlock's feet. "Do you have someone to drive you back to...wherever you came from?"

"Yes. A few of the researchers I'm working with drove me down here from camp."

"If you take that prescription up to the dispensary, they'll fill it for you. They can also give you a couple instant cold compresses for your ankle if you need them. Keep that wound clean and dry, replacing the bandage as needed. Come back in two weeks and I'll take the stitches out for you." He stood there, gaze still locked with Sherlock's, the tension in the room palpable.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"My pleasure, Dr. Holmes."

John stood at the nurses station, watching Sherlock leave the hospital with his two coworkers. He tried in vain to ignore how humanizing the slight limp in his gait was.

"Daaaaayyyymn," said a voice in John's ear. He turned to see Chloe, an American doctor on the team. She was none too subtly ogling Sherlock. "That is a nice looking man. Friend of yours, doc?"

"No," he rushed to say. "Definitely not."

"Who's he with?" The expat community in Rwanda was a close one and word traveled fast when a new group arrived. Most of the aid groups knew and looked out for each other. A new batch would be immediately noticed.

"Research group from England. They're working up in Gafunzo."

"Well, what's his story?" Chloe indicated her head towards Sherlock.

"Twenty centimeter laceration to the right calf. I put in two dozen sutures and wrote him a 'scrip for some painkillers."

"No, I meant what his deal? I could've read all of that in his chart. "

"Oh, right. Definitely rude. Presumptuous, obnoxious, and a right toff." Nice arse though, said a voice in John's head.

"You know, doc, when I was a little girl growing up in Texas, my momma used to tell me the boys that pulled my braids and called me names were the ones that really wanted to kiss me." Chloe waggled her eyebrows as he gasped in surprise.

"Ha! Not bloody likely! I have never met someone who was so conceited, boorish, and ill-mannered in my whole life."

Chloe laughed. "You're beginning to repeat yourself, dear," and gave him a wink.

Hmph. John thought. Not bloody likely.