Consulting Doctors (Sherlock Holmess/John Hamish Watson)

John Watson was fast approaching the end of another boring day at work. Since being forced to take early retirement from the army due to an injury in his shoulder, he'd got himself a job in a local doctor's surgery. The work was mundane and simple. It paid the rent but somehow it never seemed to satisfy. His psychotherapist told him it would take time to adjust to civilian life. Well a year down the line and he still hadn't managed to settle down, still felt there was something missing, and had only managed a couple of pages of his stupid pointless blog she insisted on him writing. John sighed angrily and began to close down his computer, having just finished with his final patient of the day.

He stood up and began to put his coat on. Once the computer had successfully closed down he grabbed his flat keys and headed towards the door, turning the light off and closing it behind him. With some disappointment he noticed that Sarah had already gone home for the evening. He was hoping to maybe ask her for a drink. They'd gone on a couple of dates but nothing exciting ever happened, it just kind of fizzled out. John knocked on the door of Dr. Peter Harrison just to say goodnight as he always did. There was no answer. A little unusual John thought, as Peter always stayed behind later than John. He'd been saying goodnight to Peter every day since he'd started working here. Never anything more than goodbye and hello, but he seemed a pleasant enough chap.

"Hello...Peter?" John noticed the door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, gently at first, then peered inside. "Peter!"

John rushed into the room. Peter Harrison was lying on the floor covered in blood, stab wounds all over him. John hoisted him up into his lap, checked his pulse, checked his eyes, tried giving him mouth to mouth. He was dead. He was bloody dead. He leapt up and ran over to the desk. His now bloodied hand reached over and picked up the phone, called 999. Then he ran back out into the surgery. Everyone had gone home. He was the only one left. He raced back into the room and cradled Peter in his arms, hoping that somehow he might just magically come back to life. This was insane. Last time he saw a dead man was in Afghanistan.

The ambulance from the main hospital arrived within 7minutes, followed by the police. One of the doctors approached John, telling him to stay calm and get away from the body, reaching his hand to slowly pull him away. Another one covered him in an orange shock blanket, leading him out of the room.

--

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, 3 nicotine patches covering his lower arm to keep his mind distracted. He had finished a case this afternoon and I seemed like nothing had came through ever since. Nothing on the website, neither did the police or homeless network reported something. How dreadful.

After a few minutes the high tone of his phone fille his quiet living room. Abtruptly his eyes opened wide. Sherlock's mind thought fast. 19.27h, text message instead of call: not mycroft.. Lestrade!

Sherlock hopped off the sofa, walking over to the table his phone was lying on. Smoothly he slid his tall finger over the screen to unlock his keyboard.

Doctor found dead in his cabinet. One suspect, you might want to have a look.

Sherlock recognized the number emmidiately, lestrade. After asking for address details Sherlock already went to grab his blue scarf and coat, rushing down the stairs while putting them on. Once outside he received a new text message. Eagerly the detective raised a hand to stop a taxi. This was great, this was just what he needed.

--

Back at the hospital Anderson's team had started to examine the cabinet. Outside Lestrade was questioning Dr. Watson. "What's tour relationship with Peter?" "You were the only one here, explain?" "Did he have enemies?" "noticed stranger behavior?" all the cliche question were asked. Eventually Lestrade sighed. "I'm afraid we'll have to take you in for further questioning. From this point on you're the main suspect in this case." he informed John. Just at that point Sherlock arrived.

"Evening." he grinned wide, visible content with the circumstances. Anderson's head popped around the corner, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's happiness. "it's a crime scene." he pointed out. Sherlock's grin faded at hearing the man's voice. "Yes, sobwe could do without people lowering the IQ." he snapped back before turnig to Lestrade. "that's your suspect?" he asked Lestade when he saw John getting handcuffed.

John didn't know what the hell was going on. One minute he was about to go home, the next he'd found one of his colleagues stabbed to death and when the police arrived they all automatically seemed to think he was a suspect. When he came to think of it though, it must have looked a bit dodgy. He was the only one left at the surgery, holding a dead man, covered in blood, his bloodied fingerprints on the phone.

What made it even worse was Sarah's testament. According to her statement, she'd knocked on Peter's door at 5:50pm to give him a prescription to sign. There was no one in, she'd assumed he must have gone home early and locked the door. Yet John knew that when he'd left his own room at 6:10pm Peter's door had been unlocked. But Sarah had gone home at 6pm, taking her set of keys with her. It was all very strange. John couldn't explain it, and he was quite sure the police couldn't either. As the police clapped on the handcuffs, he noticed a striking tall man with a long coat arrive on the scene, speaking to the Inspector with an air of authority.

After Sherlock got briefed by Lestrade he went inside the office. Eagerly he got out his magnifier, scanning it over Peter Harrison's body. "Neat." He whispered. Who ever did this knew what he was doing, a professional. Sherlock came to think about it, the suspect was a professional. He went on, taking in every little detail. "Stabbed with a 5 inch knife, fast powerful stabs, no cuts. No direct signs of a struggle. No signs of him fighting back, not on the body, neither in the rest of the room. unconscious before this happened, fear of the perpetrator to not reach his goal. This man had to do. But why? Why would someone kill a boring doctor like this? hmmm.

"Dr. John Watson?" He asked after he had finished, looking him straight in his eyes. Sherlock felt strange about the whole story. Something inside him was telling him there was more than the obvious. More then stupid Anderson could ever see.

"Where did you hide the scalpel you stabbed your colleague with?" He dryly asked. Changing the weapon on purpose, John's reaction would tell him a lot so Sherlock observed him close, interrupting every bit of his personal space.

After being handcuffed the Inspector came over and told John to 'wait there'. Apparently there was someone else who wanted to speak to him. As if he was planning to go anywhere with handcuffs on, he thought bitterly as he sat down, watched closely by one of the other officers.

A few minutes later the tall man with the fluffy dark hair reemerged from Peter's office and swept towards him. John stood up instinctively as he called out his name.

"Yes?" he replied. The man came right up close, completely invading his personal space, obviously trying to intimidate him in some way. John glared up into his piercing greeny blue eyes.

"What? For God's sake, I didn't kill him damn it," he insisted. "How many times..."

Sherlock observed every motion of John's eyes. They radiated panic and confusion. "how many more times do you need to repeat that? A least another 3 times but you're avoiding my question mr. Watson." he came in leaning even closer. "where is the weapon?"

There was no way around it already, this man was innocent and something much more complicated was going on. Sherlock just needed the right answers from this doctor to prove it.

This man was so damn close John could practically taste his breath, could smell his rather pleasant aftershave. If he hadn't have been so stressed out he might have wondered what brand it was so he could get some for himself.

"Look," he said finally through gritted teeth. "I don't have any...weapon OK? You can check my office. All my medical equipment's in the second drawer of my desk, it hasn't been touched. My keys are in my right pocket. I would get them for you but...well...I've kind of got handcuffs on." John gave the man a brief sarcastic smile, hoping that would be enough of the questions. He just wanted to go home.

Sherlock smiled before he leaned in to whisper in John's ear: " look doctor." his low voice purred. " I hardly believe you are capable of doing this but you need to trust me completely." his hand then slowly moved down, slipping into John's pocket. Once he got hold of the keys he retrieved it again. "I'll have you out by the end of the night." he then said, as if it were the most normal thing ever. "you can take him away now." Sherlock said to the officer nearby. All Sherlock needed was John's keys. He had to believe the victim was killed with a scalpel just so he would tell Sherlock where to find his keys. And it worked, Sherlock felt victorious.

Lestrade knew what he was up to and gave him a very disagreeing look, but he didn't attempt on stopping him. Sherlock went home for a couple of hours before returning back to the clinic late at night. It was about 3 am as he used John's keys to let himself in. first thing he did was checking John's office, he turned it completely upside down but found, as he suspected, nothing. Then he went back to peter's. Doing the same thing. This was marvellous, he smiled as he had saw everything he needed.

By now it was 6.30am and Sherlock was in his way to Scotland yard. Lestrade was on night shift so he knew it would be ended at the tile he arrived, just perfect. "Ah, officer inspector, I presume you have started the procedure on letting Dr. Watson go already?" he frowned. "no Sherl-" Lestrade tried to protest. "he is innocent. His gear hasn't been touched beside they never used a scalpel, he was killed with a 5inch kitchen knife that was nowhere to be found. Dr. Watson couldn't possible made it disappear completely in that short period of time. And it's nowhere to be found. Next the blood on his shirt. Big red stains, but no small spatters? You really think stabs like that would leave no other marks? Can't believe you looked passed that. Not to mention the fact this man had a. Appointment at the time the victim was supposed to be killed. Molly send me the rapport, it iS ridiculous you keep him here while the real killer is probably somewhere laughing at how blind you all are. I of course can't blame him." Sherlock spoke so fast Lestrade had difficulties to keep up.

"if you're wrong ab-" " when was I ever wrong inspector ?" Sherlock answered before the other man could even finish. "okay. Alright. We will let him go." Lestrade sighed.

John gasped as he felt the man's hand moving into his pocket and his hot whipsering breath tickling his ear, telling him to trust him. Trust this strange man he'd only just met. John opened his mouth to speak but something stopped him. There was something strangely charismatic about this man and if he believed he was innocent then he was really the only hope John had. Everybody else seemed to think he was some kind of psychopathic killer. As he was led away he glanced back to him with pleading eyes.

John was driven in a police car to Scotland Yard where his posessions and shoes were checked in over the desk, John still continuing to protest his innocence to deaf ears. He was led handcuffed to a cold dark cell. He sat on the bed and sighed. What a bloody night. He looked to see what the time was before remembering his watch had been taken off him. He lay back on the bed and sighed.

He had no idea how much time had past before he heard a little noise outside the door. Hours. He was asleep actually and suddenly he sat bolt upright wondering what the hell was going on and where he was. The door to his cell swung open and an officer looked in grumpily.
"You're free to go," he grunted.
John leapt up, hardly believing his ears.

He was led back through the prison area and to reception where he was handed back his things and he saw the tall man huddled in a corner talking to the Inspector. John had a feeling this was something to do with him. He hurriedly got back his things in a cheap plastic bag and ran over, grabbing his arm just as he was about to leave.

"Excuse me..." he said. "Thank you. I don't what you did or said but...thanks."

Sherlock was just finished talking to Lestrade who was far from happy about what happened this morning. he only suspect they had was now nothing more than someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. However Sherlock did offered his services to fully solve this case and Lestrade said he'd let some evidence send in to the lab along with all the reports from Anderson's team.

There was little Sherlock could do at this moment. He had told Lestrade all his deductions: The murdered had to be right handed because of the way the body was stabbed. He had to be familiar with the doctor's cabinet and he clearly was a professional at what he had done. The cuts were far to clean.

Just as he was about to leave he felt someone clinging onto his arm. Before turning around he smiled to himself, of course this was Doctor John Watson.

Sherlock turned around, quickly smiling at the fairly smaller person in front of him. "I told them the truth. Told them you were innocent." He replied, as if John never told them he was innocent.

John smiled and stared into the taller man's impenetrable eyes.

"I spent the whole night telling them I was innocent. They didn't listen," he replied, then frowned slightly and held out his hand for a shake. "I'm John...although I guess you already know that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, of course the police wouldn't listed to him. Any criminal can scream out his innocence. "You just need to say it in the right way." He replied, smiling slightly.

"Yes. Of course I know." He said as he slowly wrapped his hand around John's to shake it. "Sherlock Holmes." His deep voice spoke.

In the mean time Sherlock took these brief seconds to deduce John completely. Army doctor, retired for being shot, post traumatic stress -> walking with stick, puffiness around the eyes so barely slept, still confused on how Sherlock got him out....

John nodded slightly as he shook the man's hand. Sherlock Holmes. The name was strangely familiar. Perhaps he'd read it in the papers somewhere.

"Nice to meet you Mr Holmes," he replied as they shook hands. He could feel the man's eyes looking him up and down, studying him, as if he could see right through him. It was slightly unnerving, but John wasn't willing to leave their meeting at a simple hand shake.

"But how did you know?" he persisted. "I mean...how did you know I was innocent when the rest of the police didn't? You are...you are with the police aren't you?"

Sherlock retrieved his hand as John told him he was pleased to meet him. O course he was, he jut saved him from a life in prison. Sherlock wanted to move on but John kept shooting questions his way, questions he wasn't able to ignore that easily.

" I knew because I observe. The stains on your shirt weren't possibly those of someone who just stabbed a body 8 times." he explained. "and I am not particularry with them." Sherlock answered. "I help them out sometimes." most of the time

He helps out sometimes? Well, this man really was rather fascinating. John would have liked to have asked more questions, but he could tell Sherlock was eager to get away. Of course, there was a killer on the loose.

"Well, thanks again," he repeated with a smile. "Please catch whoever did this...if I can be of any help at all, anything, just let me know. Oh...wait..." John reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card with his name on. He scribbled his home address on the back and handed it to Sherlock. "That's my address on the back and...my number's on the front."

Sherlock smiled shortly. People had been thankful before, though they had never seemed to care about what he did. This man did, and it felt strange. And now he was offering him his number in case he could help, even stranger. Most people would want to forget about it, not involve themself more then they already had.

He accepted the man's card, briefly looking at it and memorizing the address and phone number. Though, he had the whole file on this man, so a business card wasn't really necessary.

"I'll contact you when needed." He said as he slowly turned around and started walking to the exit. Yes, he would definitively contact this man again.

After his fascinating meeting with Sherlock Holmes, John returned home to his poky sad little flat and plonked himself down in front of the TV, kicking off his shoes with a sigh. He looked at his watch. It was practically time to go back to work, he thought with a laugh, then decided he might treat himself to the day off. Sarah was bound to understand given the recent circumstances. He wouldn't be surprised if the surgery was closed altogether today.

John was tired and he told himself he should get to bed, get some rest. It had been a stressful evening after all. But instead he found himself reaching for his laptop. He couldn't get the image of Sherlock Holmes out of his mind. He wanted to know more about him. He pumped his name into the search engine, came across his website "The Science Of Deduction" and spent the next couple of hours reading it with some amusement and a great deal of curiosity. He finally went to bed at around 6am, just as the sun was coming up, and slept fitfully, dreaming of Afghanistan again.

Sherlock didn't went back to baker street, Instead he went to the morgue. Molly wasn't in at this moment but all other were already familiar with him anyway. There must be something he had missed, something the killer had done, not on purpose of course, to lead him towards him.

The next few hours were spend examine the body and going through files and evidence in the lab. As he scanned through a pile of papers, his eye fell on a certain Matthew Smith. Due to this file he had been told he only had a few weeks left. Sherlock had a feeling about this, and it was by far the only thing he had to go on. He needed more information on this man.

once back outside Sherlock stopped a taxi. He could easily go home and rest this case until the police finds out what he had somewhere next week, but instead he told the cabbie John's address, perhaps he knew this man. It wasn't a long ride, about 15 minutes until the taxi stopped in front of a rather small flat complex. Sherlock looked up, this must be it. He then walked over to the front door, looking for the right bell and ran it at least 5 seconds straight.

John was just nodding off to sleep when he heard the door bell ringing. He checked his watch. Who the hell would be calling on him at this time? In fact, who called on him at any time? He hardly ever had visitors, he couldn't even remember the last one. Very strange. Reluctantly he climbed out of bed, pulled on his trousers and a jumper over his head and jogged to open the door. He was quite surprised to see the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes hanging around in his hallway.

"Erm...hi...erm...come in..." he held open the door and motioned with his arm. "What can I do for you?"

Sherlock didn't even wait for John to invite him in, he just walked in and started talking straight on.

"I was in the lab earlier investigated some things concerning the case you got involved in earlier. Matthew Smith." He said. But when John only returned a puzzled look Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed before he started explaining.

"Matthew Smith, diagnosed with a brain tumour just 3 days ago. Only has a few weeks left. Doctor Harrison refused on any kind of medical treatment, because all would be in vain and the man would suffer more. Smith of course wants to fight for his own life, 2 kids, a beautiful wife and unfinished business. What would someone so desperitaly to live do to someone who tells him he A. Hasn't got long and B. tell him there's nothing he can do anymore. John, think about it, it's the perfect motive." He spoke ridiculously fast. Once done he ended up standing close to John, drilling his eyes into the other's. Just hoping for a spark of understanding.

John closed the door behind him as Sherlock strode into the room, commandeering the space, speaking at a pace he could barely keep up with. He'd only just met the man and yet here he was, in his flat, talking as if they'd been best friends for years. It was unorthodox and weird and...somehow perfectly all right. John didn't really mind in the slightest.

Matthew Smith wasn't one of John's patients, but he remembered him, and he remembered Dr Harrison talking about him. And come to think of it. He was angry. And a dying man would certainly have a motive. John nodded enthusiastically.

"Yes yes of course..." he replied, "I remember an argument they had...Smith had to be practically removed from the surgery by force, we were all trying to calm him down. I...I can get you his address. We can go over there."

John ran to his desk and opened a drawer where, underneath his laptop, he kept his old army revolver. Suddenly he felt a thrill and excitement burning in his chest unlike anything he'd experienced since returning from Afghanistan. He removed the revolver from the drawer and checked it for bullets, then was suddenly aware of Sherlock's eyes on him. He paused, and with a small shrug said, "Thought we might need this...?"

"The address would be marvellous." Sherlock followed the other man with his eyes.
We? Did he just shamelessly invited himself to tag along with him? Sherlock stood there rather confused. But when his eyes got fixed on what John was getting out of his drawer, Sherlock knew this man was serious and wasn't going to back off no matter what he might say.

No one ever wanted to come with him. They said he was a freak and he should just sod off with his weird assumptions. Bus this man seemed so different from all of them. The other information John was blurring out didn't really get through, details, details that weren't needed at this moment.

"We might need it." He just said before turning around. Then one corner of Sherlock's lips curled up, he liked this.

John lifted up his jumper and tucked the gun in his waistband. Even though it was uncomfortable, it felt strangely reassuring to have it in his possession again, it felt...good. He glanced at Sherlock. He'd been a little presumptious in assuming this man even wanted John tagging along, and was suddenly a little worried that perhaps he didn't.

This fear was alleviated somewhat with Sherlock's use of the word 'we'. Obviously John going along wouldn't be a problem. In fact, seeing as he was the one with a gun John figured he might actually be pretty useful to the guy. He grabbed his address book from the desk and headed towards the door.

"Great. I...guess we'll get a taxi..."

"Yes." Sherlock said as he opened the door, not waiting for John. If he thought he was able to tag along, he had to prove himself on it. Sherlock wasn't going to slow down for anyone, especially not for someone he only just met. But it was good having someone aside who knew other people on this case. Who had connections and most of all we knew the victim in his work environment.

Sherlock made a taxi stop and hopped in, he waited for John to tell him the address though.

John raced out of the flat behind Sherlock, not expecting him to be so bloody fast. It was like being back in the army, he reflected with a small smile. He'd need to be on top physical form to keep up with this guy, and he had to admit he was a little out of shape. He jumped into the back of the taxi breahtless, and gave the address to the driver. As the cab set off he sat back in his seat and struggled to get his breath back, glancing over at Sherlock who was staring out of the window, lost deep in thought.

"I went on your website last night," John said finally. "The Science of Deduction....What exactly do you do anyway? You're not with the police but...you help them out...and they certainly seem to value your opinion..."