Sherlock fic: 'Security Check' [PG] John Watson, Mycroft Holmes
Title: Security Check
Characters: John Watson, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: PG
Length: 1150
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for 1x01, 'A Study in Pink'
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the BBC, Moffat, and possibly ACD.
Thanks to: Steven for the beta, and for allowing me to fictionalize a certain notorious evening at the pub.
Summary: Sherlock frequently worked with highly classified material in his home; any potential flat-mate would need to be vetted.
The Watson file was 1.5 centimetres thicker than it had been eighteen hours ago, when Sherlock Holmes invited him for a flatshare. The speed with which this information had been collected was a testament to the efficiency of the modern intelligence services. Sherlock frequently worked with highly classified material in his home; any potential flat-mate would need to be vetted. However, given Sherlock’s nature, any candidate for the position would require an unusual set of qualifications. Mycroft opened the file and read through it, concentrating on the interview passages that his assistant had highlighted as pertinent.
[Mary Emerson, teacher, age 12]
Johnny was very bright. Then again, they all were, it was a KE Grammar School. He never fit in with the other students. Too much of the wrong sort of imagination, and rather tender-hearted. He was teased quite a bit at first, and the temper on him! I thought he would be sent down for fighting. He was always scrapping with the older boys. Eventually the worst of the lot learned to keep their distance, and he settled down nicely once he joined the rugby team.
[Richard Jones, rugby team captain, age 14]
… everybody’s mate, no one’s friend. He really liked being a part of the team, though, and I think he looked up to me. Johnny wasn’t the fastest or most skillful player on the team, but he always showed willing. And he was fearless. He once took a brutally hard tackle from a lad who must’ve weighed 15 stone. I was sure we’d be carrying Johnny off the field, but he got right up and staggered into place for the conversion. Wasn’t until after the match we realized he’d a concussion and two broken fingers.
[Michael Stamford, classmate at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital Medical College, age 19]
I wouldn’t say we were close, but John was always ready to lend a hand, or a fiver, or notes for a lecture I’d missed. He was an odd duck. One time, after this grueling four hour lab where we’d been dissecting human cadavers, a group of us went round the pub to relax. John was scarfing down a ploughman’s lunch; none of the rest of us were up to eating yet. I saw John pick at something between his teeth, and then he got the most peculiar look on his face.
I asked him what was wrong, and he answered calmly, ‘I think I’ve just found a bit of Ms. Johnson’s lung tissue in my mouth.’ Well, you can imagine everyone’s reaction. Emily ran to the loo, hand over her mouth. John followed her a moment later. I went after them, to make sure they were both all right. I could hear Emily retching in the Ladies’. And John? Under the rush of water from the sink, I could hear John giggling away.
[Sergeant Anne Richards, QARANC, Bastion Field Hospital, Afghanistan]
… Army doctors, they treat us nurses like dirt, but not Captain Watson. He was an excellent surgeon, too. Very, mmm, conscientious. Perhaps a little too much? In medicine, you’re always going to lose patients, and in a field hospital, between the severity of the wounds soldiers come in with and our limited treatment capabilities, the casualty rate is higher than anyone would like. Captain Watson never came to terms with it.
There was this one private who’d been trapped in a burning ATV during a firefight. He had multiple bullet wounds, third-degree burns covering most of his legs, and his chest cavity was riddled with shrapnel. I don’t know how he was conscious when they brought him in, but he was. Captain Watson chatted up a storm with him before the surgery, asking about his family back home, did he have a girl waiting for him. All the things you say to keep patients focused and remind them of why they should hold on.
The Captain operated on that soldier for eight hours. It was obvious after two that the boy wouldn’t make it, but the Captain wouldn’t stop. After five hours Major Thompson came by and ordered Captain Watson to call it; the Captain told him to sod off. (Must you write that down? Oh. Well, the Captain wasn’t insubordinate. Not usually. It was special circumstances.) By the end it was just me and him left in the operating theatre, standing over that poor boy’s body in the middle of the night. Captain Watson shook my hand, thanked me for my help, and ordered me to get a hot meal and a full eight hours sleep before I came back on duty.
Major Thompson started sending him out on patrols with the SAS squad after that. The Major called it something like, ‘Provisional far forward placement of assets to improve Golden Hour treatment options’, which was complete rubbish. RAMC trauma surgeons don’t get assigned combat medic duty. It was a punishment. We all knew it. The Major expected Captain Watson to come crawling back and request permission to resume his duties in the field hospital. But the Captain never did.
[Major Alan Bryant, commander of D Squadron, 23 SAS, Afghanistan]
Is Thompson behind this review? Because the only worth-while thing that idiot’s done in this theatre of operations was to assign Captain Watson to support my squadron.
Watson was one hell of a doctor, and one hell of a soldier. He didn’t have half the training he ought to, to be out with us, but he kept up. Volunteered for extra training and drills so he wouldn’t be a liability in the field. He’s the kind of soldier we need in Special Forces. Not the arseholes that name their weapons and tally their kills. No, we need the quiet men who are at their best when things are worst.
Look - he killed an enemy combatant and dragged Sergeant Mackenzie to cover, after he’d been shot, as I wrote in my report. What else do you need to know? That man deserves the Military Cross, and I’m damned if I’ll let some desk monkey keep him from getting it.
[Doctor Ella Thompson, post-discharge therapist]
… trust issues …
Mycroft paused and skimmed the rest of that section, wondering why his assistant had deemed it unworthy of his attention. Watson’s discharge papers indicated a psychosomatic limp in addition to the intermittent hand tremor. Surely his therapy notes would be informative. Mycroft soon realized he was indeed wasting his time with her observations. Haunted by the war? Preposterous. The woman hadn’t the slightest idea what sort of man she was dealing with.
Overall, the interviews were very promising. Watson might well be inclined to tolerate Sherlock's eccentricities, and could provide a steadying influence. His financials, however, displayed a potentially exploitable weakness. Mycroft would need to meet this Doctor Watson for himself to judge if he could be trusted to share a flat with Sherlock.
Characters: John Watson, Mycroft Holmes
Rating: PG
Length: 1150
Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for 1x01, 'A Study in Pink'
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the BBC, Moffat, and possibly ACD.
Thanks to: Steven for the beta, and for allowing me to fictionalize a certain notorious evening at the pub.
Summary: Sherlock frequently worked with highly classified material in his home; any potential flat-mate would need to be vetted.
The Watson file was 1.5 centimetres thicker than it had been eighteen hours ago, when Sherlock Holmes invited him for a flatshare. The speed with which this information had been collected was a testament to the efficiency of the modern intelligence services. Sherlock frequently worked with highly classified material in his home; any potential flat-mate would need to be vetted. However, given Sherlock’s nature, any candidate for the position would require an unusual set of qualifications. Mycroft opened the file and read through it, concentrating on the interview passages that his assistant had highlighted as pertinent.
[Mary Emerson, teacher, age 12]
Johnny was very bright. Then again, they all were, it was a KE Grammar School. He never fit in with the other students. Too much of the wrong sort of imagination, and rather tender-hearted. He was teased quite a bit at first, and the temper on him! I thought he would be sent down for fighting. He was always scrapping with the older boys. Eventually the worst of the lot learned to keep their distance, and he settled down nicely once he joined the rugby team.
[Richard Jones, rugby team captain, age 14]
… everybody’s mate, no one’s friend. He really liked being a part of the team, though, and I think he looked up to me. Johnny wasn’t the fastest or most skillful player on the team, but he always showed willing. And he was fearless. He once took a brutally hard tackle from a lad who must’ve weighed 15 stone. I was sure we’d be carrying Johnny off the field, but he got right up and staggered into place for the conversion. Wasn’t until after the match we realized he’d a concussion and two broken fingers.
[Michael Stamford, classmate at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital Medical College, age 19]
I wouldn’t say we were close, but John was always ready to lend a hand, or a fiver, or notes for a lecture I’d missed. He was an odd duck. One time, after this grueling four hour lab where we’d been dissecting human cadavers, a group of us went round the pub to relax. John was scarfing down a ploughman’s lunch; none of the rest of us were up to eating yet. I saw John pick at something between his teeth, and then he got the most peculiar look on his face.
I asked him what was wrong, and he answered calmly, ‘I think I’ve just found a bit of Ms. Johnson’s lung tissue in my mouth.’ Well, you can imagine everyone’s reaction. Emily ran to the loo, hand over her mouth. John followed her a moment later. I went after them, to make sure they were both all right. I could hear Emily retching in the Ladies’. And John? Under the rush of water from the sink, I could hear John giggling away.
[Sergeant Anne Richards, QARANC, Bastion Field Hospital, Afghanistan]
… Army doctors, they treat us nurses like dirt, but not Captain Watson. He was an excellent surgeon, too. Very, mmm, conscientious. Perhaps a little too much? In medicine, you’re always going to lose patients, and in a field hospital, between the severity of the wounds soldiers come in with and our limited treatment capabilities, the casualty rate is higher than anyone would like. Captain Watson never came to terms with it.
There was this one private who’d been trapped in a burning ATV during a firefight. He had multiple bullet wounds, third-degree burns covering most of his legs, and his chest cavity was riddled with shrapnel. I don’t know how he was conscious when they brought him in, but he was. Captain Watson chatted up a storm with him before the surgery, asking about his family back home, did he have a girl waiting for him. All the things you say to keep patients focused and remind them of why they should hold on.
The Captain operated on that soldier for eight hours. It was obvious after two that the boy wouldn’t make it, but the Captain wouldn’t stop. After five hours Major Thompson came by and ordered Captain Watson to call it; the Captain told him to sod off. (Must you write that down? Oh. Well, the Captain wasn’t insubordinate. Not usually. It was special circumstances.) By the end it was just me and him left in the operating theatre, standing over that poor boy’s body in the middle of the night. Captain Watson shook my hand, thanked me for my help, and ordered me to get a hot meal and a full eight hours sleep before I came back on duty.
Major Thompson started sending him out on patrols with the SAS squad after that. The Major called it something like, ‘Provisional far forward placement of assets to improve Golden Hour treatment options’, which was complete rubbish. RAMC trauma surgeons don’t get assigned combat medic duty. It was a punishment. We all knew it. The Major expected Captain Watson to come crawling back and request permission to resume his duties in the field hospital. But the Captain never did.
[Major Alan Bryant, commander of D Squadron, 23 SAS, Afghanistan]
Is Thompson behind this review? Because the only worth-while thing that idiot’s done in this theatre of operations was to assign Captain Watson to support my squadron.
Watson was one hell of a doctor, and one hell of a soldier. He didn’t have half the training he ought to, to be out with us, but he kept up. Volunteered for extra training and drills so he wouldn’t be a liability in the field. He’s the kind of soldier we need in Special Forces. Not the arseholes that name their weapons and tally their kills. No, we need the quiet men who are at their best when things are worst.
Look - he killed an enemy combatant and dragged Sergeant Mackenzie to cover, after he’d been shot, as I wrote in my report. What else do you need to know? That man deserves the Military Cross, and I’m damned if I’ll let some desk monkey keep him from getting it.
[Doctor Ella Thompson, post-discharge therapist]
… trust issues …
Mycroft paused and skimmed the rest of that section, wondering why his assistant had deemed it unworthy of his attention. Watson’s discharge papers indicated a psychosomatic limp in addition to the intermittent hand tremor. Surely his therapy notes would be informative. Mycroft soon realized he was indeed wasting his time with her observations. Haunted by the war? Preposterous. The woman hadn’t the slightest idea what sort of man she was dealing with.
Overall, the interviews were very promising. Watson might well be inclined to tolerate Sherlock's eccentricities, and could provide a steadying influence. His financials, however, displayed a potentially exploitable weakness. Mycroft would need to meet this Doctor Watson for himself to judge if he could be trusted to share a flat with Sherlock.