Chapter 7

18 June, 11:33 Central Africa Time Zone

Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda

"Who's next, Adelaide?"

"We have a lacerated foot, a probably Malaria case, and an antenatal check. You can have your pick."

"I'll take door number two," he sighed as he rolled his neck, tendons stretching and popping.

"Ding ding ding! We have a winner ladies and gents!" she shouted with mock enthusiasm and handed John the patient's thin chart. Both of them had been working since 3 AM and were starting to get a bit loopy. John enjoyed the early morning shifts; it was quiet, until suddenly, it wasn't. That ethereal peace that settled over a hospital in the early hours of the morning was both eerie and calming to John's nerves. As a trauma surgeon, the moment the pendulum swung back the other way – from calm to chaos – was a moment that he lived for. Those moments were far fewer here in the mountains than in the desert of Afghanistan. Tonight, the only time the hospital doors had swung open was when a farmer from a nearby village had come in vomiting and dizzy after being bitten by a Baboon spider on his late night trip to the latrine.

After confirming the case of Malaria and tending to the expectant young mother, John settled in at a desk in one of the empty triage rooms off the waiting area. He had a fresh cup of tea, a stack of charts to notate and sign, and a second (or third?) windfall of energy. His shift had technically ended an hour ago, but his blood was humming and he still had one patient left to see today before he could head off for a shower and a kip in his room.

From his perspective, he had a clear view of the hospital's front entrance and he couldn't help but glance at it every couple of minutes. Despite a moderate flow of patients, the morning had inched by, passing more slowly than usual. John would be lying if he said that he hadn't turned to look each time the main doors of the hospital had swung open. He had no explanation as to why he was so anxious for Sherlock's appearance. Actually, that was a lie. If he was honest with himself, he was looking forward to seeing the ill-mannered git again. There was no explanation for it, but he felt a quake in his gut every time he let his mind dwell too long on the brief exam he had performed back in the dining tent two days ago. It had been accidental, the light brush of his fingers behind Sherlock's knee, but the tiny flutter somewhere in the region of his stomach could not be explained away. John had been a practicing doctor for almost ten years – a professional damnit – not some school lad experiencing his first crush.

What was even more frustrating was that he couldn't draw a clear picture of who exactly was the real Sherlock Holmes. His first impression was that the man was a complete tosser who had gotten lost somewhere between his country estate and a posh London nightclub and accidentally wound up in the backwoods of a small central African country. However, two days ago, when John had found him in the research tent at camp, he had stood for a moment, quietly observing Sherlock. In those few seconds, it was abundantly clear that he was passionate about his research; the sharp and critical look in those oceanic eyes would have been difficult to fake. John was increasingly ashamed to admit that, after their first meeting, he had pegged Sherlock as a rich so-called "adventurer" taking in a bit of safari holiday. But after seeing the rustic accommodations at the archaeological camp and the true nature of the research the group was conducting, there was no way that he could still believe that.

Then, when Sherlock had apologized to him in the dining tent, John had sensed that he himself was not the only one surprised by the pronouncement. Sherlock had looked like he couldn't believe the words coming out of his own mouth, but was helpless to stop them. John had certainly been surprised – the man he had met in the hospital waiting room had refused to apologize and certainly given the impression that he was not accustomed to doing so under any circumstances. And yet he had. What had led him to do it?

John's head was spinning; his mind had turned into a washing machine that was agitating thoughts around and around. From that swirling mass, one train of thought was rising to the surface. John found Sherlock attractive, disarmingly so. He was, what was a word for it?, intrigued by the man. If their first meeting had taken place in a London A&E instead of here in Kibogora, he would have struggled with the decision to knock him flat on his perfect arse with a sucker punch or wheedle his mobile number out of him. But they had not met back home in London. John still had four months left in his rotation in Africa before he was due back in the UK. No serious relationship could be successfully undertaken under these circumstances. Romance was not something he was willing to take on lightly. He couldn't say that the idea of a purely physical relationship hadn't occurred to him, but that seemed disingenuous and putting the cart way before the horse. Furthermore, John was a diehard romantic, he knew this about himself. Aside from a few exceptions during his younger days, he only sought physical intimacy within the context of a committed relationship.

He started. His mind had wandered down a strange path and he realized he had been staring down at the same patient's chart for fifteen minutes now. This was absurd. He didn't know Sherlock from Adam and the few interactions they had engaged in had left John frustrated and irked. He would come in today, John would remove his sutures, and send him packing. Likely they would never see each other again.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. The hospital's main doors swung open to admit the very man John had been thinking of. Sherlock was dressed in what appeared to be his own field uniform: narrow fitting army green chinos casually tucked into sturdy high top boots, a long sleeve khaki field shirt with the shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, and a navy blue bandana tied around his neck. On some, the outfit might look like something one might wear to a fancy dress party. But Sherlock looked both stylish and practical. John watched him cross the waiting room and approach the nurse's station. He cleared his throat, getting the attention of Jenny, the Scottish nurse.

"Holmes. I have an appointment with Dr. Watson," he announced, his Oxbridge accent dripping with impatience. "I believe I am expected." John rolled his eyes. Imperious git. He stood, drawing on his white coat and gathered his charts and empty mug.

"Sherlock," he said, drawing up next to him. "Come on back." He took the proffered chart labeled Holmes, S. from Jenny, adding it to the top of his stack. "Ta, Jenny. We'll be in exam room five," he said and led Sherlock down the hall and into the empty room.

"So how are things going on the dig?" John asked after he shut the exam room door behind him.

"Well, thank you," said Sherlock, rather stiffly.

"We've been having some good weather lately. I'm sure that's been beneficial for you." He drew on a pair of gloves as Sherlock situated himself on the hospital cot.

"Yes, it's been very seasonable, or so I've been told."

"It has." John arranged forceps, surgical scissors, scalpel, antiseptic solution, and cotton swabs on a metal tray. An awkward silence had descended in the small room. Behind him, Sherlock's boot fell to the floor with a thud. John turned and set the tray at the end of the cot, pulling a stool up next to the bed. Sherlock was rolling his trouser up above the bandage, his head bowed towards his bent knee. John resolutely ignored the few errant dark curls that fell over Sherlock's high forehead. Not quite so hard to ignore was the long, pale, and bare foot resting on the cot. The small room suddenly felt very intimate. John cleared his throat with a cough.

"So…" he cast around for a topic of conversation. "Your research. Is it for a paper you're writing? Or a book?"

"Eventually a paper," Sherlock winced as a few dark leg hairs were caught by the bandage adhesive.

"Sorry," John murmured.

"I'm on the faculty at University College London. I've been trying for a few years to get tenure, but my fellow faculty don't like me much and are making things...difficult." He shrugged his shoulders. "This project should be unique enough to impress them. I'm hoping it will be my ticket in."

"So you live in London then?"

"I do. Westminster. In Marylebone." He sucked in a small breath as John swabbed the sutures with antiseptic.

"Sorry again." John picked up his forceps and scalpel. "This won't hurt, just a small tug for each suture." Sherlock waved his hand imperiously, but John noticed the slight quiver in the calf muscle. He gripped his bony ankle in reassurance and Sherlock seemed to relax slightly. John set to work on the first stitch.

"You said you don't get along with your coworkers? How long have you been at UCL?"

"Four years."

"And they still haven't come around to you?"

"You might have noticed that I'm not the friendliest of people, John."

"Oh I don't know. I'm sure under all that bluster, you have a warm heart." Sherlock grunted in response and John quirked a small smile without looking up from his task.

"Yes, well, I don't play the office politics game very well. I don't have the patience for it."

"What about your students? Do you get along with them?"

"The temperament of the average nineteen year old is something I struggle to comprehend."

"You were that age once, can't you remember what it was like?"

"I started university when I was sixteen. I doubt I was considered 'average' at that age."

"Still, I imagine the motivations of a university student are fairly straightforward, even today. When I was at medical college, all we were interested in was studying, drinking, and shagging."

"Precisely. Out of those three motivational factors, I can only relate to one. My studies have been my priority from day one of sixth form."

"Well that certainly explains your marvelous grasp of social niceties," John looked up at Sherlock with a grin. Sherlock looked nonplussed.

"Your family is from Scotland?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject abruptly.

"They are. My grandparents still live in Dundee. How did you know?" He felt Sherlock shrug above him.

"Your accent," he said simply.

"I've never lived there though. My mum, sister, and I left before I was a year old."

"It's slight, but the phonology markers are there for a Scottish central lowlands accent." Once again, John looked up from his work, his mouth slightly agape.

"It's creepy, that. I can't tell if it's a brilliant kind of creepy, or just eerie." Sherlock looked abashed and John felt bad. He set the scalpel down and gripped the pale ankle again. "It's brilliant. Definitely." John smiled and felt a blush start at his hairline. Sherlock's barefoot twitched and he looked away. John picked up the scalpel and set back to finish his task. The awkward silence had descended once again. They didn't speak a word while John finished removing the rest of the sutures. He swabbed on some more antibac gel and covered the wound with another bandage. This time, he rolled his stool away, pulled off his gloves, and allowed Sherlock to put his own trousers back to rights.

"Well you're all set. It's still healing, so I would refrain from any dangerous football matches. But you should be fine to return to full duty on the dig. Try not to go lifting heavy objects or crouch for long periods of time. If you've got some, you can rub some KY or other lotion into the skin. That will help it heal faster and reduce scarring. Though I did a good job with the stitches and you'll hardly be able to see it when it's fully healed." He busied himself by straightening up the exam room. Behind him, Sherlock was pulling a sock on over that pale foot.

"Thank you, John," he said.

"Ah. You're more than welcome. Just doing my job, you know."

"I know."

"Ah." John cast about in his brain for something to say. Something that would prolong his involvement with Sherlock. Suddenly he had a thought. This could be a very bad idea said a small voice in his head. Or it could be a very good idea said another. Only one way to find out.

"Some of the hospital staff are having a little do tomorrow night. Nothing too formal, just some drinks and dancing down in the staff lounge. Blowing off some steam, you know? A bunch of us will be there, should be fun. Adelaide's got some whiskey set back, there's usually some beer, and some of the local staff bring this brilliant stuff called ubuki. You should come, if you're free that is. If you want. If you're busy, that's fine too. Just thought I'd ask. You can invite everyone else up at the dig. Might be fun to chat with some fellow Brits again, you know...?" Smooth, Watson. Really smooth.

Sherlock was slowly lacing up his boot, but had his eyes on John.

"To borrow a phrase from my students, that sounds like a 'right rager'." John flushed. Sherlock looked back to his boots, studiously avoiding John's eager gaze. "I might be able to round up a few folks. I'll warn you though, academics can get a bit loose, especially when there's drinks involved."

"Brilliant," John attempted an air of casualness and nonchalance. "If you can make it. If not, that's fine too. You've probably got something else going on."

"Now that you mention it, I had heard a few of the others mention something about a night out at the clubs down in Leicester Square." The eye roll was audible. John laughed.

"I suppose Gafunzo isn't known for the nightlife, eh?"

"Hardly."

"Well, Sherlock, you are officially discharged from my care. Stay off the football pitch, if you will."

"Yes, doctor." John pulled the exam room door open and gestured Sherlock through it.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"With bells on." Sherlock gave a nod to Jenny at her desk and strode out the hospital doors. John watched him go, that flutter in his gut coming to life again.

A bit not good, admonished a voice in his head.

"Oh stuff it," John mumbled.

19 June, 20:26 Central Africa Time Zone

Kibogora Hospital, Kirambo, Rwanda

John found himself watching the door for a tall, dark-haired, scowling face the second time in as many days. He stood talking with Chloe, the doctor from Texas, and Mike Stamford, all sipping their beers thoughtfully.

"What do y'all miss the most about home?" asked Chloe.

"A decent plate of chips," said Mike looking dreamily off into the distance.

"Mmmm. What about you, John?"

"The convenience of everything. Public transport, grocery stores, and Netflix. Oh, and especially my neighbourhood newsagent. I miss nipping down to the corner local, picking up the day's paper and a Starbar."

"Starbar? Seriously? What rubbish!"

"Let me guess, Mike, you like Aero Mint?"

"Hey! It's good!"

"Or the worst kind of Aero bar."

"This is an inane conversation, beneath all of your intellects. But I suppose they'll award medical degrees to just about anyone these days," rumbled a baritone voice over John's shoulder. He turned to find a frowning Sherlock.

"Well fine, smart arse. What's your favorite chocolate bar, then?"

"I don't eat sweets." The group gawped at him.

"How can you not like chocolate?" asked Chloe in a shocked voice. She seemed to take this as a personal affront. Sherlock just shrugged. They stood awkwardly as the moment faded away. Chloe picked at the label on her beer bottle.

"So…" said Mike giving John the side eye.

"Oh! Right. So sorry. Where are my manners? Mike, Chloe, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's with the research group at the dig up in Gafunzo. Sherlock, this is Mike Stamford and Chloe Jones - they're also doctors with nothing better to do than work here." Handshakes and a chorus of "how do you do?" all around.

John didn't want to seem overeager or attach himself to Sherlock's hip for the entire evening, so after he made a few more introductions, pointed Sherlock in the direction of the alcohol and snacks, he broke off to mingle. He met a few of the other researchers who had come down with Sherlock, chatting with a young pathologist from St. Bart's named Molly. They had a good group going; about thirty people altogether were crowded into the staff lounge. Despite the crush of people, he was mentally and physically always aware of Sherlock. Was he having fun? Did he like John's friends? How does my arse look in these jeans? Should I have another drink? Oh bugger! He was being ridiculous. He felt the room heating up, the ubuki making his skin flush and muscles relax.

Someone had found a radio at one point and found a weak signal to a Kigali station. As the alcohol continued to flow, people began dancing. Adelaide captured John's hand and despite his protestations, drew him into the small crowd. They danced for a song, bodies pressing in around them. John felt his heather-grey t-shirt stick to his sweaty back. Adelaide leaned forward and put her mouth near his ear, shouting over the noise.

"Don't look now, but your date can't take his eyes off your arse." Either from her hot breath, the alcohol, or her words, John felt his whole body's temperature rise another degree.

"He's not my date," John corrected. "I just invited the group to come down because I thought they might like a chance to meet some other expats."

"Right, so he's just a friendly acquaintance?"

"A what?" It was starting to get rather boisterous and hard to hear.

"An acquaintance, John!" Adelaide raised her voice even louder.

"Oh!" said John, comprehending. "Definitely."

"Well your 'acquaintance' hasn't stopped staring at your arse the whole time we've been out here dancing. I'm surprised you can't feel his eyes burning a hole right through your jeans." John had nothing to say to that, so instead he gave Adelaide a sly look and took another swig of his wine. His fluttering stomach had returned.

They danced a few more songs before John took a break to grab another drink. He was feeling pleasantly relaxed and buzzed. Attempting to look casual, he made his way across the room to where Sherlock was standing talking with Molly. He joined in their conversation about Molly's medical research for a couple minutes before she gave Sherlock a look so significant it's meaning would have been clear from outer space.

"Oh! I think Greg is looking for me...over there!" She stood up on her toes and waved wildly across the room. The man in question was deep in discussion with one of the Rwandan doctors, and most definitely not looking for Molly. "Coming, Greg!" she gave Sherlock another look before scurrying off. "Laters!"

An uncomfortable silence descended. "Sorry about that," Sherlock said. "I'm afraid she has as much about as much subtlety as a sledgehammer."

"That's all right." John toyed with his nearly empty plastic cup. "Are you having fun?"

"Sure enough," Sherlock took another sip from his drink. "I'm not usually one for this kind of event, but watching your mate Mike dance is entertaining enough." John followed his gesture and saw Mike flailing about in the direction of one of the female researchers. The atmosphere in the room had swung to something sweaty and physical. John noticed a few groping hands on the dance floor and watched Adelaide slip out a side door, her hand in the grasp of a bloke John had met earlier in the evening...Lincoln, was it?

"I did warn you that we academic types can get a bit loose when plied with alcohol," said Sherlock, his voice rumbling much deeper than John remembered. His stomach clenched and a shiver danced over his heated and sweaty skin. In his mind, a battle was waging: good versus evil, to snog versus not to snog. He swallowed the last bit of his ubuki, set his cup down and turned to Sherlock.

"It's a bit warm in here. Fancy some fresh air?"

"Absolutely," said Sherlock without hesitation, similarly tossing back the rest of his own drink. John led him out the door into the hospital corridor and outside. It was just after dusk, that time when the light was blue and fading fast. The cooler night air washed over his flushed face. It felt wonderful to be out of the noise and hot room. His ears were ringing, but the only other sounds were that of the dirt under their feet and the usual nighttime insect noises.

They set out on a path that took them around the hospital compound and behind the main hospital building. Sherlock's hands were tucked behind his back, while John kept his fisted in his jeans pockets. They walked about 100 yards in silence. John wished he had some idea what Sherlock was thinking, where his head was at. He himself was wracked with indecision. Nothing good can come of this, one voice warned. He'll be leaving in a couple months, and you'll be stuck here. You don't even know him! Remember how much of a prat he is? The other voice shouted: Who cares if he's a prat! Look at that arse! Kiss him! Look at those lips! Wouldn't they feel so nice and soft? Think about how long it's been since you've have a proper snog! John stole a glance up at his lips. They did look nice.

Sherlock turned his head and caught John staring at his mouth. They had stopped walking and unconsciously turned towards each other, Sherlock's back to the cinderblock wall of the hospital. John licked his lips and watched Sherlock's red tongue dart out and briefly wet his own. That was the last signal John's instinctual brain needed.

"Oh sod it!" he exhaled as he reached up, wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock's warm neck and pulled his head down towards his own. Their lips met in a slide of soft, warm flesh over flesh. Sherlock barely hesitated before bringing a hand to John's waist and pulling him flush against his own body, his other hand fisting the back of John's t-shirt. Their mouths opened to each other immediately and their tongues slipped inside and grappled. John's hand drifted up into Sherlock's curls, still damp with sweat from the heat of the staff lounge. As their mouths continued to move over each other, John felt his heart pound in his chest, a pleasurable sensation pooling at the base of his spine.

His tongue licked deep into Sherlock's mouth, tasting him and the beer he had been drinking earlier, the malty flavor mixing with what John thought must be Sherlock's essential flavor: something vaguely smoky and amber, like some dark, ancient, and earthy spice. As he inhaled through his nose, he caught whiff of sweat, clean mountain air, and arousal.

The kiss was quickly turning sloppy. John's mouth slipped from Sherlock's and he kissed along his stubbled jawline up to the pulse point behind Sherlock's ear, sucking and biting. Sherlock let out a low moan, his long fingers grasping John's hip even tighter. John brought a hand around to Sherlock's chest and using it, pushed him back against the cinderblock wall. John crowded him against the wall, and wedged a thigh between Sherlock's legs. He registered a hardness against his thigh muscle and let out his own strangled moan. Sherlock bent his head and licked a path up John's neck. John's head fell back, exposing his neck to Sherlock's gorgeous mouth. "Oh...god," he whispered to the night air. Sherlock tongued a ticklish spot on John's neck and he tried to squirm away, but Sherlock's hands had returned to John's hips and he held him fast, pelvis to pelvis.

He sucked John's lower lip into his mouth, gently biting it. John's own hands were everywhere: Sherlock's back, his neck, his upper arms, his arse. The kiss was fierce, rough, and soul-bearing. Through the haze of passion clouding his brain, John's only thought was that he had kissed this man before – they've done this a million times before tonight. It was familiar, and despite the ferocity of the mouth against his, it was comforting. There was no timidity in this kiss, none of the usual hesitancy that accompanies a first kiss. Therefore, he reasoned, they've done this before, in some past life.

Sherlock's left hand slid down the top plane of John's bottom and gripped the flesh of his arse, pulling him closer and fusing their erections together through their clothes. All thought ceased in John's brain and his animal instincts took over fully. He rocked into Sherlock, rutting against him. He felt the growl coming deep from within Sherlock's chest. More, more was the only thing on his mind as the hand gripping Sherlock's shoulder snaked down between them, wrestling with the buckle on Sherlock's trousers. His felt Sherlock's hand kneading the flesh of his arse, as he freed the button on the chinos. Without hesitation, John's hand found the skin at the top of Sherlock's pants and stroked it softly with his thumb – the first gentle touch of their frenetic and mutual combustion. He gave Sherlock a chance to push him away, but the hand on his arse tightened to a bruising grip and he heard a throaty "yes, god! yes," in his ear. John fingers brushed past the elastic of Sherlock's pants and—

"Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock!" A woman's voice rang out, breaking the spell. John and Sherlock froze in place, hands gripping and lips still fused, but unmoving.

"Sherlock! It's getting dark! We've got to head back to camp!"

"Fuck me, it's Molly. Fuck!" Sherlock swore. They were both panting with arousal still, their erections rubbing against one another through their trousers. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring down at him in what looked to be horror and shock. John quickly withdrew his hand from inside Sherlock's pants and took a slight step back, instantly missing the touch of the other man's burning skin. Sherlock dropped his hands from their place on John's arse and did up his trousers, tucking in his shirt and avoiding John's eyes in the process.

No more than fifteen seconds had passed since Molly called out, but in that time John had seen something of a curtain being drawn over Sherlock's face. He seemed totally closed off to John now, all evasive eyes and shifting muscles.

"I, uh, I should go," Sherlock said, taking a further step away from John. "I'll see you around…" He turned and fled into the descending night, leaving John standing there with a racing heart, an aching erection, and a buzzing head.