Chemical Disaster {JOHNLOCK}

First Appointment

"Next" Dr. Watson yelled as his patient stood up to leave.

A tall man with jet black curls and an equally as dark trench-coat slipped into the room.

"Take a seat and make yourself at home." John said, gesturing at the chair right in front of him.

"Actually there will be no need to sit down." Sherlock Holmes said. John gave him a dismayed and questioning look, which made the detective felt like he had to clarify himself. "I won't be staying."

Now John's expression went from confused to complete stupefaction. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said I won't be staying. I'd assume there is no need of any justification since I'm the one who took this appointment, but if you'd like to have one, I have an arrangement with Scotland Yard in— " he glanced at his watch, "half an hour at the other side of London," Sherlock said, not comprehending why the doctor seemed utterly stunned by his statement.

   " Mr. Holmes, forgive me if I misunderstood you, but you took this appointment yourself, so why did you not just cancel it or change it to another time?" John asked.

   "I forgive you," was Sherlock's response.

    When John's perplexed expression resurfaced, Sherlock added, "You said to forgive you if I've been misunderstood, which is the case."

   John couldn't believe his ears, he started laughing.    

    "How so?"

    "Well you see, Dr. Watson, I wasn't the one who took this appointment, it was my brother. And, in case you're wondering, it is not anything related to family issues that brought me here, although it must be said that my difficult relationship with my brother did cause me a decent amount of trouble," he paused for air, and seemed to hesitate whether or not he should clarify the reason for his visit.

    "What is it then?" John asked.

     Sherlock's hand reached for his sleeve, rolling it up to reveal his bare forearm, on which rested a few track marks.

Sherlock was prepared to receive a great deal of reproach from the doctor, but instead, he simply said, "I see," and ventured a smile, then asked again, "Which kind of drugs specifically?"

"That's hardly any of your concern." Sherlock said, pulling his sleeve down to cover his marks.

"It in fact is. As your therapist, it is in my interest to know what you are dealing with."

"I'm not dealing, only consuming." Sherlock said, no hint of sarcasm in his tone.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm afraid that is not what I meant. I'm asking you tell tell me what drugs are causing you problems." John said in a soothing voice.

"Problems? What problems?"

John was beginning to think this as some kind of joke.

    "I don't have any problems," Sherlock continued, "aside from these useless appointments my brother deliberately took for me."

   "Useless? Isn't it a bit too early for you to judge?"

   " I wouldn't be so sure." Sherlock said in a matter-of-fact tone.

   " You seem rather certain of yourself. Now may I ask you a few other questions before you leave for your rendezvous?"

   "Yes, you may."

   "Tell me about your profession, Mr. Holmes. I'd assume you're quite successful, considering the way you're dressed," John said, eyeing Sherlock from head to toe, stopping for the barest moment at his stunning cheekbones, "And your personality is far from humble."

    "I'm a consulting detective."

    "I'm sorry, what?"

     "It's a term I created. It means a detective that is consultant." Sherlock said slowly, as if he was explaining this to a toddler.

    "So you are a detective?"

    "Sort of, yes."

    "Very well. Detective Holmes, does your job ever cause you troubles that might lead to consuming drugs?"

    "I never have troubles with my job." Sherlock said, holding John's penetrating gaze without flinching.

   "Neither family issues, nor anything related with your job. Perhaps unrequited love, then?" the doctor suggested.

   "Feelings are a waste of time." the detective said coldly.

John frowned, "Are they?"

"Yes. Unnecessary distractions in life."

"So there's no specific cause? For the recreational drug use, I mean."

"No, not really."

"What do drugs bring you that you don't have otherwise?" John questioned while he studied the detective's expression.

Sherlock tore his eyes away from his watch, landing them on the doctor, and remained silent for a while. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to be late."

  He walked out of the room, leaving a disconcerted John behind. He sighed. For the first time in a while, he wasn't sure of what to do to help his patient.