Chapter Text
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“Hello. I’m Captain Watson. I’ve taken over this shift. I’m just going to check your vitals and let you continue resting.”
He blinked against the late afternoon sun, seeping in through the crack of the canvas tent. His eyes attempted to focus on the blur of the man in front of him. A head of messy, sandy blonde hair, kissed with gray, sharpened, followed by piercing blue eyes, furrowed brows and a pair of pursed lips. “Now, if you’ll just sit up for me…” The cold of the stethoscope caused his breath to catch in his chest. The cadet blue eyes were then glancing, gently, into his, focused, steady, and sympathetic. Sherlock huffed in a few breaths, rolling his eyes. He was thoroughly exhausted with people looking at him like that, as if he deserved the pity of absolute strangers.
The metal traveled across his chest, then to his back. Captain Watson’s hands told Sherlock a great deal about the character of the man: they were strong hands, tanned and freckled, his blonde hair shining like gold from the unforgiving light of the desert sun. They were callused across the insides of his fingers, and where his digits connected to the palms. A sure sign of manual labor and legwork, possibly hints at a past involving instruments, but mostly they spoke to Watson doing what he must to earn his keep. Though he was a soldier, he was delicate and gentle in his movements: conscientious, attentive, and kind. Could be worse. Sherlock has had doctors in the past who were ready to kill him themselves and take the death number on their record, believing they would be doing the world a massive favor. Watson knew nothing of the path of destruction that was Sherlock Holmes. At least… not just yet.
“Alright, Mr. Holmes, you seem to be doing just fine. A delayed reaction time, but that’s to be expected with the morphine.” Sherlock chuckled. He knew Doctor Watson had looked over his record. What a precious man, to feign naivety at his last ten hospital visits scrawled in nearly illegible handwriting on the dust covered folder. Even when you worked for the government, for SAS, for your literal big brother, damn Mycroft, that indulgent prick, some things never change. “Is there anything I can get you?”
Sherlock’s ears perked at the tone of his voice. Genuine concern. Pathetic. Was this guy new? Did he not understand standard procedure of reading up? Surely, if he did, he would know his patient is a coked out sociopath: unpleasant, untamed, and unrelenting. The agent looked into the doctor’s eyes, doing his best to destroy him, deduction by deduction. It worked every single time. All he needed was one, tiny character trait to pull, and he could unravel him. He could reduce Captain Watson to a trembling pile of fury and hatred. Now, where to start.
Doctor Watson stared back at him, eyes wide and at full alert. The blue was as far from ice as it could be while still living within the same hue. His brows were furrowed enough to show worry, but not so much to look worrisome by nature. His mouth was firm, pulled up only a minute amount at the right corner. His whole head was shifted slightly to the right, cocked as though he had heard something off, something odd. He looked expectant. Watson’s shoulders were squared, braced for impact. Sherlock exhaled. That. That tiny deduction, just there. Watson knew. He had read. Sherlock puzzled, brows furrowing and eyes burying themselves deeper into Watson’s. The doctor showed no sign of fear or recoil. He maintained the contact. Behind the kindness and the worry was acknowledgement, and a tinge, just a little bit, of acceptance. Familiarity. Interesting.
He had nothing. There was nothing he could deduce, not a single string he could pull…
“What’s your first name?”
“John.”
Nothing to unravel Captain John Watson.