Fic : We Meet Again (1/4)
Title: We Meet Again (1/4)
Pairing: John/Sherlock ( Alphabetically)
Word count: ~ 16,500 overall. ~3000 this part.
Rating: R
Beta : The awesome hopeinashes
Summary: In a world world where vampires and human co exist (mostly), being a personal donor to a vampire was a highly coveted position. Unfortunately for John Watson, he didn't share that opinion.
Warnings: Vampires, violence, blood and sexual themes.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really.
A/N : This is my first Sherlock fic after ages of lurking. Beta'd by the lovely hopeinashes. Hope you enjoy x
Part One :
Doctor John Watson was told he was lucky that it was a human who had shot him. If it had been a vampire, they said, it would have been his cranium, not his shoulder, that the bullet embedded itself in. He shifted in the uncomfortable economy class seat, all too aware of the wary looks his co-passenger shot him. He didn’t blame the man; he must look like hell.
His shoulder hurt, his leg throbbed, his head ached, and he hadn’t shaved since he’d been discharged from the military hospital in Dubai. His surgeon, a no nonsense woman from Bristol, had told him to get his ‘arse back to London’ and recommended him to ‘damn good’ physiotherapist who would make sure his shoulder was back to normal in no time.
Of course, ‘normal’ was a relative term. A surgeon with nerve damage to his dominant hand was not a surgeon at all. He was just a GP now, useless to the army, useless to any trauma hospital and so they had discharged him. He frowned at the small, oval window of the aeroplane, hating himself for the self pity. Buck up Watson! He scolded himself. It wasn't the end of the world. Maybe he could join Doctors without Borders. It had been very fashionable to have that in your resume when he was in Uni.
He gulped down the shot of scotch that had been sitting in front of him.
“You all right?” asked the man to his left.
John nodded, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah, you?”
The man gave him a nervous grin and nodded back. Satisfied that the obligatory question was done with, John went back to staring out of the window and ordered another scotch. He refused to dwell on how his life was basically over.
**
It was strange to be back home after five years. Heathrow was a maze of blinding white floors and shops that literally sparkled as you walked by. The click of heels as women hurried past him brought back a rush of old memories, and he found himself smiling. It was a welcome sound after years of howling desert wind and the rumble of army trucks. Yes, the army had been great but London had been kind to him too.
He made his way to immigration and stood patiently as his turn came, feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks.
“John Watson,” said the Indian lady behind the desk.
He mustered up a smile, she was very pretty.
“Hmm, You haven’t been home for a while,” she commented as she rifled through his passport.
“No,” he agreed.
“When was the last time you donated?” She still wasn’t looking up, her fingers flying across the keyboard with a tap-tap-tap.
“Er, enlisted citizens only donate once a year,” he replied. He wasn’t above reminding airport officials of his status. It usually meant a quick route through immigration.
Her eyes flicked to the computer screen and then up at him. “That’s right, but it says here that you were honourably discharged... two weeks ago?”
Had it only been two weeks? His leg throbbed. “Yes,” he said when it seemed that she was waiting for acknowledgment.
“And the last time you donated was not to a bank but a personal donation to one Harriet Watson ten months and fifteen days ago.”
He gripped his cane. “Yes. It was the stipulated amount, I don’t see how it matters.” He really hated these formalities.
She smiled at him, but the skin around her eyes didn’t crinkle. “I'm afraid that as soon as citizens are discharged, they are required to donate, irrespective of when they donated last.”
John frowned, “When did this happen?”
“Three years ago, doctor.”
John inspected his feet for a moment, feeling a little nervous. The files might say that he had donated religiously his entire life, but the fact was that if you had a family member who was a vampire, you could bend the rules a bit.
Harry was moody and stubborn but she was still his sister, and a rebel at heart. She had known how he felt about donating, especially to banks, so she had volunteered to fudge the records a bit. She would claim that he had donated, get her fill on the side and John was free of the obligation to give his blood. It was highly illegal but John didn’t regret it. He loathed all policies that ignored autonomy of one’s own body and vampire policies made a joke of it. Joining the army had made it even easier to stay under the radar .
Harry used to come visit him during his leave in Dubai and they used to have a good laugh over it. In fact, in the last 30 years of his life, John Watson had never had to give up even an ounce of his blood to a vampire.
“Doctor?”
John blinked out of his reverie, embarrassed. “Er, sorry. Can you repeat that?”
The woman gave him the plastic smile again. “I asked whether you will be going the personal donation route again.”
He contemplated asking Harry for help, but then he remembered the last time they had met. Even the memory made him angry; it had been exactly ten months and fifteen days ago that John Watson came to accept that his sister was a raging alcoholic. He couldn’t bear the thought of asking her for a favour. Not after the things she’d done.
He squared his shoulders. “No, no I won’t be.”
She nodded, handing him his passport and a form. “Fill in the form and the Association will contact you soon about the local donation centre.”
John nodded vaguely. “Thanks.” He scribbled in the details of his London bed sit and tossed the form into the collection box. Hopefully he wouldn’t be contacted for a few weeks.
**
Three days later, when John was lying on his bed, idly wondering whether he should take the gun Bill had mailed him from Afghanistan and end it all, the phone rang.
Not the landline, which had been ringing nonstop for the past two days (he couldn’t be bothered to get up from the bed and walk to the phone to answer it), but the mobile Harry had thrust at him his first day back.
She had met him at the airport and, inevitably, they had had a row in public. It had started by her accusing him of being an ungrateful bastard and how could he not tell her he had been shot, and it had ended with him shouting that she was just like Dad, and how could she do that to Clara?
Grimacing, he fumbled for the phone and blinked at the screen. It was just a jumble of numbers, but even those seemed to laugh at him. He didn’t need to be reminded that there were only three people in his address book; Harry, his therapist and the physiotherapist he was supposed to call.
“Hello?” his voice was hoarse and he cleared it.
“Doctor John Hamish Watson?” said the polite lady on the other line.
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Hi, my name is Mindy from the Association-”
“How’d you get this number?” He was fairly sure it was still registered in Harry’s name.
“You haven’t been answering our calls, Doctor.”
So that’s who’s been calling, John thought, sitting up.
“I’ve been, err, busy,” he said, rubbing away sleep from his eyes.
He glanced at the digital clock. It was 5 pm.
“Of course. We understand how hard it is for veterans like yourself, so we’ve taken the trouble to book an appointment for you. Tomorrow at 10 am.”
The thought of donating made him cringe. “I.. have a job appointment,” he lied.
“Oh, no problem, how about 7 pm then?”
“I have a date.” He smiled bitterly at his chosen excuse. He hadn’t had a proper date in almost 8 months.
“Lucky girl,” Mindy crooned. “What about 4 o' clock, hmm?”
“I, er well- ”
“Wonderful! We’ll see you then, doctor.”
The line went dead and a moment later his phone lit up.
You have one new message.
John pursed his lips when he read it; the address to the donation centre. Just great, he thought, and flopped back down on the sheets.
**
The donation centre was just a five minute walk away. A medium sized building that looked more like a corporate office than anything else. John went up to the desk and a smiling man lead him through a corridor and left him in a room full of comfortable black couches and racks of magazines. The floor was wooden and the walls were painted warm, inviting hues. It reminded John of a posh dentist's waiting room, minus the irritating music.
There were several people already there, sitting and riffling through magazines. Almost everyone was younger than him, and he felt a little self conscious. He remembered that by 35 most people had finished their donation obligations, the only exceptions being personal donors, who never had to come to the banks anyway. The “PD life” as they called it was supposedly the most fulfilling life to be had, if one believed the advertising. but Harry had told John stories about the way most vampires treated their PD’s. What was the point of luxuries if your sole purpose was to be food?
He couldn’t find any couch unoccupied so he went up to the chairs lining the walls and sat down. There was a receptionist behind a desk at the opposite end of the room, and behind her two doors, one to her left as well as right.
“Max Cornwell!” she called and a young , gangly 17 year old jumped to attention. They had a few words and he grinned and sped past her to open the door to her right. Most people after him however, were called and sent to the left door. John wondered what the difference was.
“Are you here to volunteer or donate?”
John turned to his left, where a small, nervous looking woman was sitting. She was plain, but quite charming, if you looked past the awkward smile on her face. It was almost as if she was trying to smile in a way that would best please John. She was dressed in a low cut top and skirt but was fiddling with the collar like she was embarrassed by how much skin she was showing.
“What’s the difference?” he asked, genuinely not knowing.
“I'm Molly.” She offered her hand and John shook it.
“John.”
“You don’t come here very often do you?”
“No, er. I just moved to London.”
Molly nodded like he was confirming something. “Well, usually by your age people have finished donating their lifetime amount, that’s why I asked- oh I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I'm so sorry.”
“Molly, its fine. Go on, tell me the difference,” John said, laughing a little. His leg throbbed when he admitted to himself that it was the first time he had laughed since he had gotten shot.
Luckily, the girl was too caught up his her own embarrassment to notice his expression.
“Well, the door on the right is for candidates who are applicable to be a personal donor. The one on the left is for the bank.”
“I see. You’re here for the door on the right, am I right?”
Molly blushed and looked at her feet. “Is it very obvious?” she picked at her blouse again. “It’s the third time I’ve been here. He never picks me, even though I’m even AB negative. ”
John patted her hand, “That’s all right. Everything happens for the best.”
She looked at him with round, hopeful eyes,. “Do you think so?”
No, thought John privately. “Of course.”
She smiled at him, a real smile that reached her eyes, and John suddenly couldn’t stand to look at her.
“Are you all right? she asked, sounding worried.
He had a headache but he tapped his thigh with his cane. “My leg gives me a bit of a problem, that’s all.”
“Oh, I’m surprised they would ask you to donate if you’re hurt.”
The word is cripple, he wanted to tell her. “So am I.”
“Are you AB negative as well?” she asked. She seemed determined to solve the mystery of the old crippled man in the donor room.
“Oh no, nothing as fancy as that. I was in the army before, so I suppose I haven’t done as much donating as the Association would like.”
Molly looked at him in awe. “That makes sense. Is that how you were injured? I’m a doctor, you know. Well, a pathologist, but that’s still a doctor. I could help,” she giggled.
John stared at her. A pathologist and she wanted to become a personal donor?
She must have seen the expression on his face, because she sighed.
“Oh, not you as well. Mum gives me the same look.”
“Why would you want to throw away all those years of studying?” John asked her, baffled.
Molly twisted her hands in her lap, “He’s not like the others. He’ll let you do your own thing and he’s so very smart!”
“The vampire?” John asked, wanting nothing more than to take Molly by the arm and show her firmly to the exit.
“Sherlock. He’s lovely.” Molly said, turning fully in her seat to face him.
“You know him?”
“He comes to Barts sometimes...” she trailed off, blushing.
This girl worked at his old hospital?
“Molly, you’re a smart girl. You must know that being a personal donor is nothing more than glorified sla-”
“Molly Hooper!” the receptionist called.
His words seemed to slide off of her as she sprang to her feet. John huffed out a breath when Molly give him a wide smile. She was ushered into the right door, and he hoped for her sake that whoever this Sherlock was didn’t choose her.
A minute later his name was called out and he found himself limping towards the receptionist.
“Ah, Doctor! We’re glad you could make it.”
John blinked at her.
“I’m Mindy,” she explained.
“Oh, nice to meet you,” he said, recognising her from the phone. Her hair was short, blonde and stylishly cut. Horn rimmed spectacles that were tinted purple perched daintily on her nose, and her lips were painted a garish red. She couldn’t have been more than 25.
God, he thought, blinking down at her. He felt old.
“Hmm, door to your right please.”
“Sorry?”
Mindy leaned forward and heaved in a breath. John tried hard not to stare right down her very revealing top.
“Door. To. Your. Right.”
John frowned. “There must be a mistake. I'm not here to volunteer.”
“It doesn’t matter. Whoever fits the profile has to be screened. It just so happens that so many people want to become personal donors that some have to be turned away. That’s why we call it volunteering.”
“If there are so many people volunteering then why make me?” John said, starting to get irritated.
Mindy sighed, taking off her spectacles and pushing them onto her head. She trained sharp blue eyes at him.
“Look, Doctor Watson. I’m just doing my job. The profile says that all negatives and AB positives are to be put up for personal donor screening.”
John gripped his cane. “ I'm 36!”
“Yes, you are. However, you have never entered a donation camp in your life. We are providing you with an opportunity that you missed due to your...familial obligations.”
John got angrier at the casual mention of Harry but Mindy kept on speaking. “I don’t see why you have a problem with it. It’s just a screening. Very few people get chosen, anyway. ”
“That’s not the point! The age limit to apply to be a personal donor is-”
“30 for positives, 35 for O and A negatives, 37 for AB positive and B negatives, and no age limit for AB negatives. Applicable to the UK only, of course. ”
“That’s not how I remember it,” John said, shocked.
“Things have changed. A lot of potential personal donors in your generation got away with not applying and finished their lifetime commitment of blood before the universal screening law was passed. You should consider yourself lucky you still have a chance.” She smiled at him but her eyes were cold. “Door to your right please, Doctor.”
John glared at her, hating the feeling of not having a choice. What the hell had the government being doing while he was in Afghanistan? He limped especially slowly to the door and slammed it hard behind him.
“John!” Molly was running up to meet him the moment he entered. Her eyes were shining, like they were in school and he had just been selected in the same team as her. “You volunteered!”
“No, I didn’t,” he grumbled.
“Oh, have you never been screened then?” Molly said, guiding him to sit on a red leather couch. It was so soft John felt he was being swallowed as he sat down. Molly seemed as uncomfortable as him, shifting on the couch for a few seconds before she stilled.
“No,” John said, looking around. There were no windows, but the room was richly decorated with soft carpeting and expensive looking cabinets lining the sides. The seating was much like a stage, with the couches taking up most of the space, placed in rows. They faced a raised floor that held two armchairs where John guessed the vampires would be seated. He frowned at the others in the room. All of them were younger 25, snazzily dressed and very, very beautiful.
He felt himself relax. Whoever this vampire was, he was obviously extremely shallow. He was sure that he would be out of the bloody camp in no time.
End Part One.
A/N : I really did not want to break this up into more than two parts, but LJ won't let me :( Part two will follow shortly. Comments are greatly appreciated. :)
>>Go to Part Two >>
Pairing: John/Sherlock ( Alphabetically)
Word count: ~ 16,500 overall. ~3000 this part.
Rating: R
Beta : The awesome hopeinashes
Summary: In a world world where vampires and human co exist (mostly), being a personal donor to a vampire was a highly coveted position. Unfortunately for John Watson, he didn't share that opinion.
Warnings: Vampires, violence, blood and sexual themes.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Really.
A/N : This is my first Sherlock fic after ages of lurking. Beta'd by the lovely hopeinashes. Hope you enjoy x
Part One :
Doctor John Watson was told he was lucky that it was a human who had shot him. If it had been a vampire, they said, it would have been his cranium, not his shoulder, that the bullet embedded itself in. He shifted in the uncomfortable economy class seat, all too aware of the wary looks his co-passenger shot him. He didn’t blame the man; he must look like hell.
His shoulder hurt, his leg throbbed, his head ached, and he hadn’t shaved since he’d been discharged from the military hospital in Dubai. His surgeon, a no nonsense woman from Bristol, had told him to get his ‘arse back to London’ and recommended him to ‘damn good’ physiotherapist who would make sure his shoulder was back to normal in no time.
Of course, ‘normal’ was a relative term. A surgeon with nerve damage to his dominant hand was not a surgeon at all. He was just a GP now, useless to the army, useless to any trauma hospital and so they had discharged him. He frowned at the small, oval window of the aeroplane, hating himself for the self pity. Buck up Watson! He scolded himself. It wasn't the end of the world. Maybe he could join Doctors without Borders. It had been very fashionable to have that in your resume when he was in Uni.
He gulped down the shot of scotch that had been sitting in front of him.
“You all right?” asked the man to his left.
John nodded, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah, you?”
The man gave him a nervous grin and nodded back. Satisfied that the obligatory question was done with, John went back to staring out of the window and ordered another scotch. He refused to dwell on how his life was basically over.
**
It was strange to be back home after five years. Heathrow was a maze of blinding white floors and shops that literally sparkled as you walked by. The click of heels as women hurried past him brought back a rush of old memories, and he found himself smiling. It was a welcome sound after years of howling desert wind and the rumble of army trucks. Yes, the army had been great but London had been kind to him too.
He made his way to immigration and stood patiently as his turn came, feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks.
“John Watson,” said the Indian lady behind the desk.
He mustered up a smile, she was very pretty.
“Hmm, You haven’t been home for a while,” she commented as she rifled through his passport.
“No,” he agreed.
“When was the last time you donated?” She still wasn’t looking up, her fingers flying across the keyboard with a tap-tap-tap.
“Er, enlisted citizens only donate once a year,” he replied. He wasn’t above reminding airport officials of his status. It usually meant a quick route through immigration.
Her eyes flicked to the computer screen and then up at him. “That’s right, but it says here that you were honourably discharged... two weeks ago?”
Had it only been two weeks? His leg throbbed. “Yes,” he said when it seemed that she was waiting for acknowledgment.
“And the last time you donated was not to a bank but a personal donation to one Harriet Watson ten months and fifteen days ago.”
He gripped his cane. “Yes. It was the stipulated amount, I don’t see how it matters.” He really hated these formalities.
She smiled at him, but the skin around her eyes didn’t crinkle. “I'm afraid that as soon as citizens are discharged, they are required to donate, irrespective of when they donated last.”
John frowned, “When did this happen?”
“Three years ago, doctor.”
John inspected his feet for a moment, feeling a little nervous. The files might say that he had donated religiously his entire life, but the fact was that if you had a family member who was a vampire, you could bend the rules a bit.
Harry was moody and stubborn but she was still his sister, and a rebel at heart. She had known how he felt about donating, especially to banks, so she had volunteered to fudge the records a bit. She would claim that he had donated, get her fill on the side and John was free of the obligation to give his blood. It was highly illegal but John didn’t regret it. He loathed all policies that ignored autonomy of one’s own body and vampire policies made a joke of it. Joining the army had made it even easier to stay under the radar .
Harry used to come visit him during his leave in Dubai and they used to have a good laugh over it. In fact, in the last 30 years of his life, John Watson had never had to give up even an ounce of his blood to a vampire.
“Doctor?”
John blinked out of his reverie, embarrassed. “Er, sorry. Can you repeat that?”
The woman gave him the plastic smile again. “I asked whether you will be going the personal donation route again.”
He contemplated asking Harry for help, but then he remembered the last time they had met. Even the memory made him angry; it had been exactly ten months and fifteen days ago that John Watson came to accept that his sister was a raging alcoholic. He couldn’t bear the thought of asking her for a favour. Not after the things she’d done.
He squared his shoulders. “No, no I won’t be.”
She nodded, handing him his passport and a form. “Fill in the form and the Association will contact you soon about the local donation centre.”
John nodded vaguely. “Thanks.” He scribbled in the details of his London bed sit and tossed the form into the collection box. Hopefully he wouldn’t be contacted for a few weeks.
**
Three days later, when John was lying on his bed, idly wondering whether he should take the gun Bill had mailed him from Afghanistan and end it all, the phone rang.
Not the landline, which had been ringing nonstop for the past two days (he couldn’t be bothered to get up from the bed and walk to the phone to answer it), but the mobile Harry had thrust at him his first day back.
She had met him at the airport and, inevitably, they had had a row in public. It had started by her accusing him of being an ungrateful bastard and how could he not tell her he had been shot, and it had ended with him shouting that she was just like Dad, and how could she do that to Clara?
Grimacing, he fumbled for the phone and blinked at the screen. It was just a jumble of numbers, but even those seemed to laugh at him. He didn’t need to be reminded that there were only three people in his address book; Harry, his therapist and the physiotherapist he was supposed to call.
“Hello?” his voice was hoarse and he cleared it.
“Doctor John Hamish Watson?” said the polite lady on the other line.
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Hi, my name is Mindy from the Association-”
“How’d you get this number?” He was fairly sure it was still registered in Harry’s name.
“You haven’t been answering our calls, Doctor.”
So that’s who’s been calling, John thought, sitting up.
“I’ve been, err, busy,” he said, rubbing away sleep from his eyes.
He glanced at the digital clock. It was 5 pm.
“Of course. We understand how hard it is for veterans like yourself, so we’ve taken the trouble to book an appointment for you. Tomorrow at 10 am.”
The thought of donating made him cringe. “I.. have a job appointment,” he lied.
“Oh, no problem, how about 7 pm then?”
“I have a date.” He smiled bitterly at his chosen excuse. He hadn’t had a proper date in almost 8 months.
“Lucky girl,” Mindy crooned. “What about 4 o' clock, hmm?”
“I, er well- ”
“Wonderful! We’ll see you then, doctor.”
The line went dead and a moment later his phone lit up.
You have one new message.
John pursed his lips when he read it; the address to the donation centre. Just great, he thought, and flopped back down on the sheets.
**
The donation centre was just a five minute walk away. A medium sized building that looked more like a corporate office than anything else. John went up to the desk and a smiling man lead him through a corridor and left him in a room full of comfortable black couches and racks of magazines. The floor was wooden and the walls were painted warm, inviting hues. It reminded John of a posh dentist's waiting room, minus the irritating music.
There were several people already there, sitting and riffling through magazines. Almost everyone was younger than him, and he felt a little self conscious. He remembered that by 35 most people had finished their donation obligations, the only exceptions being personal donors, who never had to come to the banks anyway. The “PD life” as they called it was supposedly the most fulfilling life to be had, if one believed the advertising. but Harry had told John stories about the way most vampires treated their PD’s. What was the point of luxuries if your sole purpose was to be food?
He couldn’t find any couch unoccupied so he went up to the chairs lining the walls and sat down. There was a receptionist behind a desk at the opposite end of the room, and behind her two doors, one to her left as well as right.
“Max Cornwell!” she called and a young , gangly 17 year old jumped to attention. They had a few words and he grinned and sped past her to open the door to her right. Most people after him however, were called and sent to the left door. John wondered what the difference was.
“Are you here to volunteer or donate?”
John turned to his left, where a small, nervous looking woman was sitting. She was plain, but quite charming, if you looked past the awkward smile on her face. It was almost as if she was trying to smile in a way that would best please John. She was dressed in a low cut top and skirt but was fiddling with the collar like she was embarrassed by how much skin she was showing.
“What’s the difference?” he asked, genuinely not knowing.
“I'm Molly.” She offered her hand and John shook it.
“John.”
“You don’t come here very often do you?”
“No, er. I just moved to London.”
Molly nodded like he was confirming something. “Well, usually by your age people have finished donating their lifetime amount, that’s why I asked- oh I'm so sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I'm so sorry.”
“Molly, its fine. Go on, tell me the difference,” John said, laughing a little. His leg throbbed when he admitted to himself that it was the first time he had laughed since he had gotten shot.
Luckily, the girl was too caught up his her own embarrassment to notice his expression.
“Well, the door on the right is for candidates who are applicable to be a personal donor. The one on the left is for the bank.”
“I see. You’re here for the door on the right, am I right?”
Molly blushed and looked at her feet. “Is it very obvious?” she picked at her blouse again. “It’s the third time I’ve been here. He never picks me, even though I’m even AB negative. ”
John patted her hand, “That’s all right. Everything happens for the best.”
She looked at him with round, hopeful eyes,. “Do you think so?”
No, thought John privately. “Of course.”
She smiled at him, a real smile that reached her eyes, and John suddenly couldn’t stand to look at her.
“Are you all right? she asked, sounding worried.
He had a headache but he tapped his thigh with his cane. “My leg gives me a bit of a problem, that’s all.”
“Oh, I’m surprised they would ask you to donate if you’re hurt.”
The word is cripple, he wanted to tell her. “So am I.”
“Are you AB negative as well?” she asked. She seemed determined to solve the mystery of the old crippled man in the donor room.
“Oh no, nothing as fancy as that. I was in the army before, so I suppose I haven’t done as much donating as the Association would like.”
Molly looked at him in awe. “That makes sense. Is that how you were injured? I’m a doctor, you know. Well, a pathologist, but that’s still a doctor. I could help,” she giggled.
John stared at her. A pathologist and she wanted to become a personal donor?
She must have seen the expression on his face, because she sighed.
“Oh, not you as well. Mum gives me the same look.”
“Why would you want to throw away all those years of studying?” John asked her, baffled.
Molly twisted her hands in her lap, “He’s not like the others. He’ll let you do your own thing and he’s so very smart!”
“The vampire?” John asked, wanting nothing more than to take Molly by the arm and show her firmly to the exit.
“Sherlock. He’s lovely.” Molly said, turning fully in her seat to face him.
“You know him?”
“He comes to Barts sometimes...” she trailed off, blushing.
This girl worked at his old hospital?
“Molly, you’re a smart girl. You must know that being a personal donor is nothing more than glorified sla-”
“Molly Hooper!” the receptionist called.
His words seemed to slide off of her as she sprang to her feet. John huffed out a breath when Molly give him a wide smile. She was ushered into the right door, and he hoped for her sake that whoever this Sherlock was didn’t choose her.
A minute later his name was called out and he found himself limping towards the receptionist.
“Ah, Doctor! We’re glad you could make it.”
John blinked at her.
“I’m Mindy,” she explained.
“Oh, nice to meet you,” he said, recognising her from the phone. Her hair was short, blonde and stylishly cut. Horn rimmed spectacles that were tinted purple perched daintily on her nose, and her lips were painted a garish red. She couldn’t have been more than 25.
God, he thought, blinking down at her. He felt old.
“Hmm, door to your right please.”
“Sorry?”
Mindy leaned forward and heaved in a breath. John tried hard not to stare right down her very revealing top.
“Door. To. Your. Right.”
John frowned. “There must be a mistake. I'm not here to volunteer.”
“It doesn’t matter. Whoever fits the profile has to be screened. It just so happens that so many people want to become personal donors that some have to be turned away. That’s why we call it volunteering.”
“If there are so many people volunteering then why make me?” John said, starting to get irritated.
Mindy sighed, taking off her spectacles and pushing them onto her head. She trained sharp blue eyes at him.
“Look, Doctor Watson. I’m just doing my job. The profile says that all negatives and AB positives are to be put up for personal donor screening.”
John gripped his cane. “ I'm 36!”
“Yes, you are. However, you have never entered a donation camp in your life. We are providing you with an opportunity that you missed due to your...familial obligations.”
John got angrier at the casual mention of Harry but Mindy kept on speaking. “I don’t see why you have a problem with it. It’s just a screening. Very few people get chosen, anyway. ”
“That’s not the point! The age limit to apply to be a personal donor is-”
“30 for positives, 35 for O and A negatives, 37 for AB positive and B negatives, and no age limit for AB negatives. Applicable to the UK only, of course. ”
“That’s not how I remember it,” John said, shocked.
“Things have changed. A lot of potential personal donors in your generation got away with not applying and finished their lifetime commitment of blood before the universal screening law was passed. You should consider yourself lucky you still have a chance.” She smiled at him but her eyes were cold. “Door to your right please, Doctor.”
John glared at her, hating the feeling of not having a choice. What the hell had the government being doing while he was in Afghanistan? He limped especially slowly to the door and slammed it hard behind him.
“John!” Molly was running up to meet him the moment he entered. Her eyes were shining, like they were in school and he had just been selected in the same team as her. “You volunteered!”
“No, I didn’t,” he grumbled.
“Oh, have you never been screened then?” Molly said, guiding him to sit on a red leather couch. It was so soft John felt he was being swallowed as he sat down. Molly seemed as uncomfortable as him, shifting on the couch for a few seconds before she stilled.
“No,” John said, looking around. There were no windows, but the room was richly decorated with soft carpeting and expensive looking cabinets lining the sides. The seating was much like a stage, with the couches taking up most of the space, placed in rows. They faced a raised floor that held two armchairs where John guessed the vampires would be seated. He frowned at the others in the room. All of them were younger 25, snazzily dressed and very, very beautiful.
He felt himself relax. Whoever this vampire was, he was obviously extremely shallow. He was sure that he would be out of the bloody camp in no time.
End Part One.
A/N : I really did not want to break this up into more than two parts, but LJ won't let me :( Part two will follow shortly. Comments are greatly appreciated. :)
>>Go to Part Two >>