If you mean the rubbish bin I’ve been asking you to take out for the last three days, yes, that is rubbish. –JW
No, the computer lab at Bart’s, it’s all taken up with students. It’s repulsive. –SH
That’s weird, almost as if it’s a computer lab FOR STUDENTS –JW
Half of them won’t graduate and the rest are not likely to make any significant medical advancement so really I’m the one who should have priority. –SH
You do realize I’m trying to work. –JW
So is listening to you whine about having no computer. –JW
And yet you keep answering. –SH
What was the point of that? That’s not even a response. –SH
John sighed and switched off his phone before seeing in the next patient. This was going to be a very long day.
At Bart’s, Sherlock groaned, paced in front of the lab. Sent endless texts to John with no reply, tried checking the news and police reports for anything interesting, before finally resorting to standing behind students who/ were/ on the computer and looking threatening, at least, that’s what he did until he was ‘escorted’ out.
Since John had switched off his mobile he’d seen a mother who nearly fainted when he told her that her daughter had lice, an elderly man with a rash he was fairly certain would haunt his dreams in a place he hoped he’d never have to see again, a college student trying to skip out class with a ‘flu’ and a child who needed stitches out who’d apparently stabbed themselves with a pencil. As the next patient was shown in John put on a mild smile and readied himself for another bout of idiocy, god he was starting to sound like Sherlock…Sherlock?
“John.” Sherlock said, as if turning up to John’s work was simply to be expected.
“God, Sherlock, what are you doing here? You’re going to get me sacked!”
“Not if you do your job.”
John’s lips pressed into a thin line as he composed himself. Punching Sherlock would probably get him sacked faster than if he refrained.
“How exactly am I supposed to do that with YOU here?” He reached up to take off his reading glasses.
“Leave them.” Sherlock snapped. John raised an eyebrow.
“I won’t get you ‘sacked’ if you just do your job. I’m your patient after all.”
John leaned back and crossed his arms.
“Oh, really?”
Sherlock leaned across the desk and took hold of John’s tie.
“Yes, I need you to cure me.”
“Of what, an inflated ego?”
“Boredom.” He pressed his lips to John’s.
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