The man was a curiosity.
Doctor John Watson didn't really understand his draw to this mystery patient, but he recognized it straightaway.
The man was in a coma. He had been found, overdosing on cocaine, and he just hadn't woken up. When John received the case, he'd been unconscious for almost a week. They didn't know what was causing it—there was no physical trauma apparent to cause it, nor any debilitating mental anomalies they saw on the scans—and his first doctor had all but given up on him.
John was handed the file by a different man—though he bore a resemblance to the unconscious one in his physical features—because the other doctor was an "unqualified, bumbling idiot."
Having recently returned from Afghanistan, John had been handled with kid gloves by the other surgery staff—he was displaying some possible symptoms of PTSD, and his therapist's convinced his limp is psychosomatic. But this man, this regal, demanding man, simply thrust the folder into his hands and muttered, "Surely anyone could do better than this fool."
He had been referring to Doctor Number One. John didn't know the man well, had greeted him in passing but nothing more. He didn't pity him when he was outcast by Mycroft Holmes, who seemed to demand excellence in all things.
John was going to give it to him.
The patient was Mycroft's younger brother, Sherlock Holmes. The elder Holmes regarded him carefully in the moments after his 'selection', and smirked. "Go on, then," he pushed, "do your job."
John did.
The situation was an unusual one, but John did everything in his power to settle the dust Mycroft was stirring up.
After an examination and a sleepless night going over the patient's file, John called Mycroft back.
"Theoretically, there is absolutely nothing wrong with your brother," he started, "except for the fact that he hasn't woken up."
"Yes, that much I understand, Doctor Watson," Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes.
John ignored that. "And, as I'm sure you know, after the first week, the chances of him waking up go down a bit."
"And there's simply nothing left you can do," he mocks harshly. "Are all the doctors here this impeccably dismissive?"
"Mr. Holmes, I think you misunderstand."
Mycroft raises an eyebrow.
"While it is true that your brother is a rather…unusual case, I have no intention of giving up on him. Whether he's in that coma for a day more or a year, I will do everything in my power to treat him."
Mycroft stares.
"Whether or not he wakes up at all, I am a doctor and he is my patient. I give you my word, I will do my job as long as I am able."
There's three beats of silence before Mycroft relaxes slightly in his chair and the corner of his mouth pulls up in a smirk.
"That loyalty kicked in rather quickly. Your dedication in appreciated, Doctor Watson."
Not long after, Mycroft left. John sagged into the vacated chair, exhausted and glad to be alone. Well, alone as he could be in a room with a man in a coma.
He glanced over at the enigma that is Sherlock Holmes.
"You're to be a tricky one," he whispered.
A/N: I don't really know what this was, to be honest. It was an idea which stubbornly manifested itself in the forefront of my thought process until it was on paper (or computer, I guess) and I kind of like it. I could realistically come up with an entire storyline for this—but I won't. Sorry. I already have too much on my plate, and in my opinion, there are entirely too many Doctor!John/Patient!Sherlock fics out there. (I actually read one recently that was quite good, but that's beside the point.) So I'm stopping this one here, at a happy (for me) place. On another note, I enjoyed writing Mycroft. Review?