Chapter Text
John headed into the clinic that morning just as he had countless mornings before. He endured the usual hustle and bustle in the Tube, a bit of spilled coffee on his coat as he plodded his way up the stairs, and then the short walk up to the clinic doors. There was a bit more chaos than the norm at the front waiting area today as he breezed by, but it was rather trial by fire here for new front desk personnel. Kill or be killed, keep order with the waiting queue, or be trampled by the masses. John somewhat uncharitably reflected that he was glad he got the crowd one at a time, in a timely fashion, instead of the lemming-like onslaught in which they arrived.
John happened upon Sarah as he was hanging his coat up in the kitchen.
“Good morning, John,” she blandly remarked, sipping a weak cup of tea and finishing up a muffin.
“'Morning, Sarah,” he carefully returned. Their relationship had been a tad strained after the events of their ill-fated date a while back. Almost getting a girl run through with a Chinese death escape device wasn't exactly the way to encourage future romantic endeavours. Well, at least not for most people, he wryly thought to himself, trying not to think about Sherlock dashing to his, erm, he and Sarah's rescue.
Cheekbones and collars, stroppiness and heads in the freezer and random explosions. Not really such a grand combination, if he was honest. John found himself really not minding too much if he could have Sherlock's intensity and focus on him like that again.
Who craves attention more, really? Him or me? Dammit, I just want him to respect the all shit I do for him, to NOTICE and maybe appreciate it a little. To care.
John's brain drifted to mingle with memories of Sherlock actually acknowledging him. That first night - shooting the cabbie and saving him certainly got his attention. The way the detective had looked at him during their run-in with Moriarty at the pool. Desperate and afraid - as if John really meant something to him….
Bollocks.
He needed to stop doing that - making himself second guess the nature of his relationship with Sherlock. There wasn't anything there like that. Hadn't he told everyone within earshot, again and again, that he wasn't gay? That they weren't a couple? Everyone seemed to assume along those lines. Sherlock never seemed to correct anyone on that assumption, oddly enough. He would correct everyone on any other bloody thing, but not that. Why the hell not?
You didn't need that in your head today. Enough.
Sarah, to her credit, hadn't ostracized him completely, but that spark was definitely gone that she may have had for him. They had worked back up to congenial colleagues who could occasionally share a joke, a gentle smile, and a passive aggressive potshot at each other once in awhile.
“We finally have a replacement for Nurse Josephine in this morning,” Sarah casually remarked as she tidied up her cup and proceeded to get up to begin her shift. “I'll introduce you later on. Seems to be quite popular with the natives already.” She suggestively waggled her eyebrows at him as she slid by. “Catch you later, John.”
Sarah shut the door behind her as she headed out. Thank God. They had been a nurse short since Josie went on maternity leave. Being a body down, John always seemed to be the one who jumped in to help everyone else at the expense of exhausting himself. He did rather like those evenings after a day like that though. It was as if Sherlock could deduce the heavier tread of his tired footsteps on the steps and would sometimes be in the kitchen, getting the kettle started for him. On the rare occasion, he might even have a cup of tea already waiting. He smiled fondly at that. Then of course, he'd be rudely snapped back to reality by the discovery of a pig carcass thawing in the bathtub or fingernails macerating in a mysteriously oozy suspension in their only measuring cup in the kitchen. Ruefully, John took a deep breath and vowed not to think about Sherlock at ALL today. Just do his job.
After donning his white doctor's coat, John walked into the supply room, intending to grab a few of the new nicer patient drapes before they all got picked over. He quickly discovered he wasn't the only one in the cramped room.
There we go - speak of the very devil.
A tall, dark curly haired man in blue scrubs had his back to the door, clipboard in hand, bent over, appearing to be taking an inventory of the gauzes and packs. John paused to allow the lizard part of his brain to roguishly admire the plush backside that was so temptingly poised in his direction. Mentally, he shook his head sharply.
What the hell, Watson?? That is seriously off limits thinking !
Didn't he JUST tell himself he wasn't going to think about Sherlock today? And what the hell was the bastard doing here anyway, kitted up in medical gear and actually looking efficient and useful?
“Sherlock, you complete and utter prat! Just because you have an official looking clipboard in your hand and are wearing doctors togs, does not mean you can waltz in here and take advantage of the new staff that haven't been warned about you! C'mon. Out. Why the hell are you here anyway? I'm WORKING.”
John reached out to spin the infuriating interloper around by the shoulder, grabbed his shirt by the front to shake him a bit before he booted him out. The long body straightened suddenly and pivoted right into John's chest, only stopped by John's grip on the vee of the scrub top. John huffed out an impatient breath of frustration and looked up. Pale skin, sinfully long neck, yeah, yeah. Then looked up some more.
What the hell.
He was ratcheting his neck back more than he seemed to recall usually having to. Sherlock hadn't grown, had he? Dear God, what a wretched thought - like the taller man needed more ammunition to loom menacingly over John's smaller body. His gaze finally reached Sherlock's dark brown eyes and stopped.
Brown????
John released his grip on Not Sherlock instantly as if he was that broken curling iron that Harry left in the bathroom one time when they were kids. He still had a bit of a scar on his palm as a reminder and strangely enough, right now, it burned. They hovered there for a moment, each deep into the other's personal space, chest to almost chest. The stranger blinked in a stunned manner and then his face morphed into a beautiful smile. His lashes coyly dropped and then raised again, half lidded to meet John's gobsmacked look of stupefaction.
Without moving away from John, the noticeably taller man opened his full, rosy mouth (not that John was staring, he just HAPPENED to be looking, just there), and cocked his head at John.
“You must be Dr. Watson,” Not Sherlock drawled.
American. Sideburned. Dark curls flopping artfully over one eye. A bit on the thin side. Had it been a difficult for a male nurse to find a post? And a handsome one at that? Did that make office politics a bit more strained for him? John willed Deduction Mode Sherlock out of his head forcibly.
“Yes, um, yes. John Watson.” He stumbled back a bit breathlessly and automatically stuck out his hand to shake the long fingered hand that was placed firmly into his grasp.
Long, taller Not Sherlock let his mouth quirk up appraisingly to one side. His rich brown eyes travelled in a leisurely fashion down to John's sturdy brogues then up again, just as slowly to meet John's dark blue ones.
“I'm your replacement nurse. Hamish Waugh.It’s a genuine pleasure to meet you. Believe me.” With that almost insolent remark, he winked.
Damn. Was he just checking me out?
Why did he just get a flash of Sherlock doing exactly that as he stalked out of the room at Bart's in search of his riding crop? John's brain was in danger of system shutdown.
“H-hamish, huh? Um, I'm a Hamish too. Family name,” the doctor stammered out a little too helpfully and ran a hand quickly through the close-cropped hair at the nape of his neck.
“Yeah, Same here. I'm staying with some distant relatives while I'm here. Work study for finishing my nurse anesthetists training. People usually call me Eliot - it's my middle name. Hamish is not really a popular or a well known name in the States, though here, folks don't blink an eye at it.” He turned that chocolatey gaze back to John and for the love of God, winked again.
John HAD to get out. He made a hasty retreat after a rather contrived glance to his watch and a “Oh, I'm late for my first patient, GottaGoBye.” As soon as he rounded the corner away from the supply room, he slumped his back against the cold walls of the hallway and blew out a shaky breath.
What the HELL had all of that been about?