BBC SH - Medic Day

John Watson sat back in his armchair, feeling a strange giddy sensation of excited pride.

This was a momentous day.

The first time ever that his parents had visited him at 221B.

Mr. And Mrs Watson were sat on the sofa, looking around with approving curiosity as they sipped at the cups of tea their son had just handed to them.

"Is he ever going to move?" Mrs Watson asked, inquisitively nodding towards Sherlock who was sat in his armchair.

"No, probably not for another couple of hours. He's currently shifting through old cases in his head to try and find a link." John admitted, looking at his flatmate who was staring into the middle-distance with a deceptively vacant expression. "Don't take it personally that he hasn't greeted you. When he gets like this he doesn't notice anything."

"Doesn't this get a bit boring for you, when he's like this?" Mr. Watson said, scooping Gladstone off the floor and fussing over the delighted bulldog.

"I used to, but now I just like the quiet." John admitted. "Also it can be funny. Watch this." He turned to his flatmate. "Hey, Sherlock?"

No answer.

"I'm pregnant."

No response.

"It's Anderson's."

Nothing.

"I know he's a great big bag of dicks but I just can't help it. Something about his greasy hair just does it for me."

Not so much as an eyebrow twitch.

"Language, John." Mrs Watson said, reprovingly.

John rolled his eyes and just tried to feel glad that his mother hadn't heard some of the words he and his regiment had used in Afghanistan. And fought the urge to remind her that he was in his FORTIES for goodness' sake . . .

"Either way, it's a very nice house." Mr. Watson said, rubbing under Gladstone's chin. "Though . . . the uh . . . the bullet holes?"

"He got bored." John said, matter-of-factly.

They gave him a look.

"No, no!" John said, hastily. "It's fine. I've actually been informed I'm special."

"How so?"

"He's never shot at me. Which I'm told by his big brother is unusual. Ophelia is the only other one with that honour."

"Oh, yes. She's the one I saw via Skype that one time, isn't she?" Mrs Watson said, scratching Gladstone's ears as the dog eagerly nosed her, basking in the attention he was receiving from the newcomers. "She sounded nice; I'd like to meet her."

But John's ears were pricking up. "You might yet."

"What?"

John listened as someone fumbled with their front door. "Deadbolt caught as that particular key is not used often. Now open on the second go. Then the normal lock very quickly undone. Mrs Hudson's shaking hands take several goes to get the key in. And Ophelia's the only other one with a key. And the only other one who can take the stairs at such speed."

The Watson Seniors shared a look. Sherlock had obviously taught their son well.

There was a thunder of feet on the stairs and a purple whirlwind burst in the door.

"UNCLE SHER-" Ophelia began but skidded to a breathless halt at the sight of the Senior Watsons. Then the rest of the Irregulars, who had been delayed by a few seconds, crashed into her back and propelled her forcefully into the floor.

There was a moment's anarchy before all four of them were on their feet again. "Oh . . . Hello . . ." She choked out, doubled up and gasping. "So sorry, I didn't . . . realise John had company."

"God, 'Phee! Are you alright?" John asked, bewildered, wondering why on earth they were all there. And why the bloody hell Squid was carrying a double bass case.

She nodded, almost too out of breath to speak. "F-fine . . . Sorry, we didn' . . . mean to intrude. Bu . . . bloody man  . . . won't answer his . . . phone!"

"I-it's fine. 'Phee, guys, these are my parents. Mum, Dad, this is Ophelia Holmes, Sherlock's niece and her band of merry men, Squid, Joey and Banjo."

Giving them a wobbly smile, Ophelia staggered over and held out a trembling hand. "Ple-pleasure to meet you both. Always wondered what Uncle John's parents were like."

But John didn't listen as his mother and father took Ophelia's hand and smiled and returned her greeting before extending the courtesy to the other three.

Uncle John . . .

A slip of the tongue of course, and he could see that Ophelia had realised it by the way she was stuttering and blushing and trying very hard not to look at him.

But still . . . Uncle John . . . Why did that tiny little mistake make John's heart feel like it had grown to twice it's normal size within his chest.

He forcefully shook himself from his reverie. "Either way, sorry 'Phee. You wanted your uncle, didn't you?" John said, looking towards his flatmate. "He's in his Zen mode at the moment, is it urgent?"

"I'm hoping that that was a rhetorical question, considering the speed of my entry." Ophelia said, stumbling over and pushing her exertion-soaked hair out of her face as she crossed to her uncle's chair. "We've got my Dad incoming at a rate of knots. I need to get his attention."

"Good luck. I told him that Anderson and I were having a love child earlier and it didn't budge him." John pointed out.

"Hmm." Ophelia said, cocking her head to one side. "For future reference, this generally works."

Her hand extended out to one side before lashing round like a whip.

Sherlock's hand latched onto her wrist, stopping it mere millimetres from his cheek.

Blinking for the first time in what seemed like ages, Sherlock looked at his niece.

Then he frowned. "How long have you been here?"

"Never mind that now!" Ophelia cried. "It's Medic Day!"

"What!" Sherlock scrambled to his feet. "Mycroft told me it was next Thursday."

"Hang on; we're going to Dublin next Thursday." John remembered.

"Exactly!" Sherlock said, gesturing at John.

"Yeah, he cottoned on. He's on his way now. We need to get the hell out of here."

"No, no." Sherlock said, impatiently. "His goons would have us followed. We need to hide."

"I'm fine, I'm all sorted. You just need to leave. And fast." Ophelia said crossing over to Squid and opening the double bass case which was revealed to be empty.

John felt faintly sorry for his bewildered parents who looked like they were wondering what the hell they had gotten themselves in for.

Sherlock finally seemed to notice them, quicksilver eyes scanning their faces and deducing everything he needed to know.

He turned his charm up to eleven.

For once, John believed a tiny bit of it was even sincere.

"Hi, I don't believe we've met." He strode over, hand extended and his most winning smile on his face. "Mr. David Watson and Mrs Janice Watson, am I correct? Pleasure to meet you both."

"And you." Mr. Watson said, slightly gobsmacked.

"So sorry about that." Sherlock said, waving sheepishly back at his armchair. "I get lost in thought sometimes. Listen, could I ask a favour?"

They nodded.

"Would you awfully mind raising your feet?"

They did so.


"Much obliged." And then Sherlock was on the floor and wriggling under the sofa.

There was a pause.

Then his head emerged again. "Lovely to meet you. Hopefully next time it will be under better circumstances. Also, when the man enters in about fifteen seconds, would it be too much to ask that you not tell him where I've gone?"

"Er . . . No, not at all . . . Nice to meet you." Mrs Watson said.

Sherlock grinned. "I knew your son got his deviousness from somewhere. Ophelia, you all set?"

"Ready!" She said, as the Irregulars carefully shut her in the instrument case.

"Good. Thank you very much." This directed at John's parents. "See you later." This directed at John.

He vanished back under the sofa with a few thumps.

Mr. and Mrs Watson looked at their son.

He was looking at his watch, lips moving silently.

As his mouth formed the word fourteen he looked up and said, "Good morning, Mycroft."

Just in time for the man's foot to cross the threshold.

Mycroft Holmes looked at John with a faintly disapproving expression. "Good morning John."

"He's not in." John supplied, face perfectly composed with not even the faintest hint of dishonesty present.

Mycroft just gave him one of his trademark looks of exhausted amusement, which John absently noted was the one he always thought of as Exasperation No.3.

Not breaking eye-contact with John, Mycroft instead spoke to Squid, interrupting the young man in his surreptitious sidle towards the door.

"Mr. Jacobs in the twelve years you have known my daughter I have witnessed you playing the bass guitar, electric guitar, keyboard, banjo, cymbals, spoons and kazoo. You do not now, ever have done or ever will play the double bass."

Squid just shuffled awkwardly from one foot to another and held protectively onto the instrument case as a half dozen of Mycroft's more burly goons entered the kitchen. "So?" He said, in a weak attempt at defiance.

"So, next time attempt a more plausible disguise as a means of extracting Ophelia from the house. However, seeing as how you have taken the care to so carefully package up my eldest daughter I will not undo your hard work. She'll be easier to transport this way."

The double bass case lurched and a muffled yell of 'Dad!' came from within.

"You had a chance to fulfil your appointment of your own free will and you chose not to take it, Ophelia." Mycroft addressed the case as it was prised from Squid's protesting hands by one of the largest goons.

It opened and Ophelia tumbled out, only to be seized by the wrist by the self-same goon.

"And now for my brother." Mycroft turned to the sofa on which John's horrified parents were sat.

To his credit he gave them the sincerest smile he could muster.

By given that this was Mycroft Holmes that still didn't mean much.

"Terribly sorry about this, Mr. and Mrs Watson." He said.

"Sorry about wh-WHAT!" Mrs Watson shrieked as the sofa with the two of them was lifted up and the smallest of the goons stuck his head into a cavity in the floor beneath it.

"Good Lord, how long has that been there?" John wondered aloud at the sight of the previously unknown trapdoor.

"Approximately a year and three weeks." Mycroft informed him. "Are you just visiting for the day?" He asked his parents.

"Y-y-y-" Mrs Watson squeaked from where she was clutching onto her husband and staring wide-eyed at the floor which was four feet below them.

"How nice." Mycroft said, smiling with apparent friendliness. "And such lovely weather for it too."

There was a string of curses and Sherlock Holmes was dragged out of the trapdoor by his feet by the goon who was looking rather out of breath and worse for wear as a result of the encounter.

The Watsons shrieked as the sofa was unceremoniously dropped to the floor.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock spat, sending his brother the most loathing-filled glare he could muster.

"Apologies John, we shall retire to the kitchen so you can recommence the conversation which we interrupted." Mycroft said, ignoring his brother as the goon dragged Sherlock along the floor and into the kitchen by his ankles, the detective stubbornly refusing to walk.

John scrambled to his feet, holding up one finger to his parents to indicate that he would be with them briefly. "Oh no, you don't Mycroft. I want an explanation too."

"For God's sake!" Sherlock spat as he was foiled in his attempt to get to his feet by Mycroft's minion. "Mycroft, stop being ridiculous and call off your pet!"

"I have no sympathy for you brother, you knew this was coming."

"What is 'this' anyway?" John inquired.

"Medic day." Sherlock groaned as he was finally allowed back to a vertical position.

"Yes, I got that from Ophelia earlier but what IS Medic day?"

"It is a perfectly reasonable arrangement I have come to with my daughter and my brother which they fail to appreciate." Mycroft said, icily.

"Reasonable!" Ophelia protested.

"Will someone please just bloody well answer me!" John snapped, making everyone flinch.

No one liked it when John shouted. It was like the family pet just suddenly biting you, made all the more horrible for being unexpected.

"In exchange for not interfering in our lives, Mycroft insists that we have a once yearly health check-up from one of his tame doctors." Sherlock explained, sullenly.

John blinked. "Er . . . Sorry Sherlock, it does sound pretty reasonable."

"Hah!" Mycroft said, pointing triumphantly at John in an unexpectedly childish gesture.

"That's not the point, John!" Ophelia groaned, attempting to wriggle out of her goon's grip. "It's not the check-up, it's the doctor! He's horrible."

"Ophelia, don't be childish." Mycroft said, witheringly.

His daughter's nostrils flared and she finally yanked herself free.

"She's not being childish, Mycroft. The man is a butcher!" Sherlock complained, hastily undoing his shirt-sleeve and shoving it up. "See these! These are the scars from the ten goes it took him last year to give me a single injection."

Mycroft raised a disparaging eyebrow.

"Don't give me that. You can tell these scars are only a year old by looking at them and you know I always used to do my cocaine nasally."

"If he's such a butcher then how it is that Ophelia has not a single scar?" Mycroft shot back.

Ophelia however was looking faintly sickened. "You had yours in your arm?"

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked.

"He told me the injections had to be in my bum." Ophelia said, weakly.

There was an uncomfortable moment's pause.

"And I DO have scars, Dad." She told Mycroft, petulantly. "I just don't fancy mooning my Dad, his minions and the good doctor's parents to demonstrate that fact."

Mycroft still looked doubtful.

Then one of his goons coughed awkwardly. "For what it's worth Sir, they're not lying. Dr. Menzies is  . . ." He tailed off awkwardly.

"He's a sadistic, creepy pain in the arse." Another one finished bluntly.

"Literally a pain in the arse." Sherlock said, gloomily.

"I thought you had your injections in your arm?" John asked.

"Freezing cold hands and a prostate exam don't mix well." Sherlock said, shuddering slightly.

"I hear that." One of the minions said, shifting uncomfortably.

Mycroft was looking distinctly off-balance now.

"Besides Mycroft, I LIVE with a doctor!" Sherlock pointed out. "If I get hurt John tends to take care of me. The infuriating bloody man has also got me eating and sleeping far more than I need-"

"Hah." John interjected, sarcastically.

"This is probably the healthiest I've been in my life and you know it!" Sherlock said, gesturing animatedly. "And Ophelia is always round here too. If anything was wrong with us, we could ask John for help!"

John noted that Ophelia and Sherlock had somehow managed to travel across the kitchen without anyone noticing. Now, they stood close behind the good doctor as though pleading silently with him to act as a human shield.

"I'm sure there are certain things that Ophelia would not wish John to deal wi-" Mycroft began but Ophelia interrupted.

"For up-the-frock stuff I go to the local walk-in clinic." She ducked her head slightly and John's heart swelled with anger as he heard her say in a tiny voice, "And I had to tell Dr. Menzies that very emphatically before he'd believe me."

"Ophelia." John interrupted finally. "How inappropriate was he with you because there are strict rules about these things and I will contact the necessary people myself to get him struck off if need be?"

The girl shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, knowing that everyone in both rooms was listening. "It's fine. He never touched me in an unprofessional way . . ."

"But . . ." John prompted, instantly recognising from the girl's demeanour that there was more.

She bit her lip. "But he'd make me take my clothes off at the start of the exam and make me sit there in my underwear throughout the whole thing and sometimes he'd give me these looks . . ."

"Right, that does it-" John said, angrily. "Mycroft-!"

The man held up a placating hand, more perturbed than he was willing to let on about the treatment of his eldest daughter. "Don't worry John, obviously Dr. Menzies has been behaving inappropriately and he will be placed under investigation and doubtless will be barred from practicing medicine in the future. I will assign another doct-"

"No you bloody well won't Mycroft Holmes, because I'll be doing the check-ups." John said, emphatically.

John didn't miss the relief in Sherlock and Ophelia's eyes at that.

"You?" Mycroft said, witheringly.

"Yes." John said, firmly. "You will give me access to Dr. Menzies consulting room and equipment and I will give both your daughter and your brother a thorough check-up that deals with all parts of the body not covered by bra, knickers or boxers. I will then give you a copy of my notes and then you will consider the matter closed until this time next year when we will repeat the ritual until further notice."

Mycroft raised a disparaging eyebrow and John felt an uncharacteristic surge of rage at the man. Normally he could more-or-less cope with the man's arrogance, telling himself that it was just like Sherlock's traditional condescension but with an umbrella and minions attached.

But Sherlock never disdained John's medical knowledge.

"I applaud your enthusiasm John." Mycroft said and the minions moved to take hold of Sherlock and Ophelia again. "However, whilst your battlefield credentials are no doubt impeccable I hardly feel that they are appropriate in this case-"

"You're really going to do this, Mycroft Holmes?" John said, bluntly. "Really?"

Sherlock and Ophelia exchanged a glance.

"You are going to argue with the medical qualifications of a doctor who once successfully extracted shrapnel from a chest cavity with no equipment save for a pocket knife, anti-bacterial hand-sanitiser, a pocket-sewing kit and opium? Who spent three years as a GP before joining the army and spent a year and a half as one after meeting your brother? And, on that note, I know for a fact that all of your goons are ex-armed forces and generally ex-commandos at that but to judge by their proclivity for obedience none of those present here ever made higher than Sergeant. And so, not as Doctor John Watson but as Captain John Watson of the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers and thus the highest ranking individual in this room, I would advise them to back. The Hell. Off."

There was a ringing silence as everyone focused on the small man with the crossed-arms and the expression of absolute natural authority on his face.

No one even contemplated disobedience.

The goons backed off and, much to everyone's surprise, one of them even saluted. Hell, even Sherlock felt his hand twitching and wanting to follow suit.

John nodded and murmured, "At ease."

There was a small squeak from the back and Banjo frantically shushed Joey who made the hushed observation of 'bloody hell, he's hot when he does that . . .'

Mycroft inclined his head, contemplating John.

An unimpressed quirk of the eyebrow and the two men were locked in a staring contest.

The other individuals in the room waited with bated breath.

But John had no inclination of bowing to this man. "Considering it's no thanks to you that Sherlock's even here at all, are you really prepared to have this argument Mycroft?"

That did it.

Mycroft broke eye-contact and there was a split-second where pure shame was visible on his face before his mask was back in place.

His goons looked nervously from one to the other, slightly discomfited now the traditional lines of authority were blurred.

Finally, Mycroft spoke. "I will send a car for all of you later-"

"No, I'm spending the day with my parents." John said, firmly. "Tomorrow morning."

Mycroft bit down hard on the resentment swelling in his chest. "Fine. Nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Fine. See you then." And with that John turned his back and went and sat back in his armchair, feeling the palpable shocked silence behind him. "Sorry about that." He said, brightly as he reached for his now slightly cooled tea. "Where were we?"

His parents just gave him an affectionate look.

'Proud of you,' his dad mouthed before starting on a completely unrelated topic relating to his cousin's upcoming wedding.

After a few moments' pause the minions and Mycroft traipsed out. Another few minutes and the Irregulars left.

Then John became aware of a presence lurking by his armchair.

Looking up, he found Sherlock and Ophelia hovering nervously.

"Yes?" He said, grinning cheekily.

They just grinned back.

John smiled into his tea.

He knew it was unprofessional and ever-so-slightly dickish to go around pulling rank but, by God that had felt so good . . .

Then Sherlock was perching on the arm of John's chair and, to the man's very great surprise, asking after Harry.

John blinked as his parents responded. Sherlock barely remembered that Harry even existed half the time.

Or so he had thought, he realised as Sherlock asked after relatives and events and bits of John's life that the doctor had thought had passed his flatmate completely by.

He listened, dumb-struck, as Sherlock and Ophelia - but most Sherlock - conversed with John's parents in an unexpectedly civil manner. Laughing and smiling and just generally being . . . well, normal. Even going so far as to apologise for the previous debacle.

John couldn't understand it; he had expected Sherlock to return straight to his previous coma-like state of reasoning.

And then it hit him.

This was Sherlock's way of saying thank you.

Thank you for removing the prospect of being placed at the mercies of an incompetent doctor, thank you for removing the distasteful eventuality of Sherlock being poked and prodded and manhandled by a complete stranger and thank you for standing up to quite possibly the scariest man in Britain for him.

He looked up at the detective.

A fleeting eye-contact and a small smile were enough to confirm John's suspicions.

A faint bubble of pride burst in John's chest as Sherlock got to his feet and grabbed for his coat, suggesting that why not go out and grab a bite to eat? He knew a nice little place called Angelo's where they were always welcome; Sherlock just needed two minutes to text Lestrade as he had just figured something out . . .

John Watson got to his feet and reached for Gladstone's lead, surveying his well and truly charmed parents, the colourful, elastic teenage figure of Ophelia and of course Sherlock, who was gnawing on his bottom lip as he dashed off a quick text.

Yes . . . Dinner with the family sounded nice.