Author's Note: I like to imagine that Sherlock and John are sort of famous around the London Metropolitan Police Department, and that gives them a bit of sway when it comes to other law enforcement situations, which is why a) the bobby agreed to take his statement later (because he knew that Lestrade would pester them if John didn't show) and b) he agreed to keep some things out of the report for Sherlock's privacy. I know it's unrealistic, but there are a LOT of things that are unrealistic about Sherlock's relationship with Scotland Yard, so I feel that this fits in despite that.
"Why are we here again?" Sherlock asked drolly, flipping through the latest issue of Vogue with a look of fascinated revulsion.
"You know exactly why we're here: because you admitted you haven't had a Pap smear or a pelvic exam in ten years and you know that's not healthy," John replied, squeezing his partner's knee. "It'll be fine. I promise. It shouldn't hurt too much or even at all, okay?"
"Why couldn't you have done it?" the detective asked, the tiny edge of whine in his voice.
John rolled his eyes. Ever since they'd gotten together, Sherlock apparently thought he never had to go to another doctor, having one in the house. He'd even asked if his boyfriend could write him a prescription for painkillers after a particularly bad fall: that idea was nipped quickly in the bud when John lugged him the half-mile to the hospital himself, admonishing him the whole way. John snatched the issue of Vogue out of Sherlock's hands, as he had taken to ripping off the edges and looking carefully at their pigments under his pocket magnifier: the three women and the two partners also waiting along with them were staring at the tall, gaunt man as if he were clinically insane. Sometimes, the doctor wondered if both of them were: Sherlock for his total lack of decorum, and John for putting up with him.
Two of the women – the unaccompanied woman and the female partner of a pregnant woman – seemed more amused than disturbed, while a tall, burly man that looked like he belonged in a chain gang more than a doctor's waiting office was watching them with what seemed like pure hatred. His partner had her head down, examining her hands with intense detail.
"Because I'm not a gynecologist by trade, Sherlock. I'm a general practitioner, and I wouldn't trust myself to do a reproductive health scan like that. Especially because we don't have any of that kind of equipment at the surgery, and you require a little bit different care than most GPs provide." He set the magazine aside, surprised when Sherlock didn't immediately grab for another.
Instead, the consulting detective leaned in, his voice husky with desire, and purred, "Oh, but John, I do so love it when you play doctor with me." The long, spectral fingers of Sherlock's left hand crept ever-closer to the crotch of John's jeans, dangling playfully over the inseam until John nearly moaned right there in the waiting room.
Regretfully, and blushing deeply, John swatted his boyfriend's hand away. "Behave yourself, or I'm going to sedate you." He was aware that the attention of the other patients and their partners was fully on them, and he wanted to sink right into the floor – especially if that would transport them right back to their cozy bedroom in 221B Baker Street. The burly man clutching the hand of his wife was giving them an especially thorough glare.
"Mmm. Yes. Sedation lets you have your way with me. Any way you want."
"Seducing me isn't going to get you out of this appointment," John replied, attempting a modicum of calm and failing completely.
"Pity," Sherlock replied, his lips nearly fellating John's ear, "because I could think of plenty of more interesting ways to spend 45 minutes."
The ex-soldier sat back in his chair, breathing deeply through his nose, trying to stem the surge of desire that was blocking out every other sensory input. The things that Sherlock's voice could do to him should be illegal, he decided, because the man was irresistible when he put his mind to it.
Right then, Sherlock's name was called by a timid and confused-looking nurse. Sherlock saw her expression and a brief flash of anxiety crossed his face, before his typical mask of bored superiority sank back in.
"Don't worry," John whispered, catching the stricken look. "I explained to your doctor the specifics of your situation when I made the appointment for you. She's a friend of mine – we graduated from Bart's the same year – so I know she understands. You'll be fine."
The dark-haired man nodded, giving John a tender smile that sent heat waves all the way down to his toes. "I'll be back in a bit. Don't start any fights."
"No guarantees. Try not to set anything on fire."
"No guarantees," Sherlock drawled, winking and squeezing John's thigh affectionately as he got up to follow the nurse.
John beamed at that, hiding his grin behind a copy of Reader's Digest that he grabbed from the table beside him. He was deeply engrossed in the 'Humor in Uniform' section when suddenly the magazine was ripped from his hands.
"You some kinda fag? Some kinda tranny-chaser?" The other man in the waiting room was leaning close, and John could smell the sharp tang of chewing tobacco on his breath. He winced uncomfortably, glancing from side to side for help, but the rest of the waiting room occupants seemed just as stunned as him. None of the employees of the clinic were within eyesight; John gulped. He could tell this wouldn't end well.
"Sir, I'm just here with my partner while he gets his Pap smear. I don't want to ca-" John's placations were cut off when the man grabbed him by the throat, bringing him up to his face. The man's pungent breath was even more apparent, and the doctor had to force himself not to gag.
"Shut the fuck up, Lila. This pussy has the nerve to parade around showing off his faggot love with some freak of nature – he's going to get what he deserves," John's attacker snarled, never turning his furious gaze away from his victim.
"Why don't we take this outside?" John asked evenly – as calmly as he could while being held captive by an enraged homophobe.
To women's horror, Hank grabbed John by his hair and began to drag him outside, John allowing himself to be led, despite gritting his teeth in pain. Lila, nearly hysterical, almost ran after her husband before the unaccompanied woman grabbed her arm. "Let them go," she said quietly, "I'm calling the police from my mobile right now."
When they'd come to the alley beside the clinic, John's military instincts finally kicked in. He smoothly twisted himself out of Hank's grasp, stomping first on his foot and then giving him a swift kick to his left knee. As the larger man screamed with agony, John punched him in the mouth, knocking out several of his teeth. The man's hand flailed, hitting John in the nose, but the ex-soldier reared up to avoid further injury, finally bull-rushing Hank against the brick wall of the clinic.
"Listen to me, you little shit," John snarled, "if you ever say a goddamn thing about my boyfriend or me again – I don't care if you even fucking whisper it in your sleep – I will hunt you down, wherever the fuck you are – I will even break into a goddamn prison – and I will kill you. I will kill you. And I won't feel a goddamn ounce of pity. Do you understand?"
Hank nodded, and John smiled, a twisted, vengeful grin that would put Sherlock's most sadistic smirks to pity. He brought his good knee up to the larger man's groin, reveling in the squeal that followed, and then smoothly sidestepped him as he went down, clutching at his crotch.
"Now you sit here and think about what you've done. I'm going to wait for the police."
Sure enough, the shrill cadence of a squad car soon followed. John sighed, all the adrenaline spent from his system; his legs were beginning to shake, and he knew that he must look terrible.
The bobby that exited the car took one look at the scene and reached for his handcuffs. "What happened?" he asked, looking more concerned about the quivering man standing in front of him than the man moaning on the ground.
"My name is Dr. John Watson. I live at 221B Baker St with my partner, Sherlock Holmes – you may have heard of him, he's a close acquaintance of DI Lestrade."
The bobby smiled ruefully. "Yes, I've heard of him. Go on."
"We were at this clinic so that Sherlock could get an examination when this man started spewing homophobic slurs. He dragged me out here by my hair, as you can see," he leaned down, showing a clump of his hair missing; Sherlock was going to have a fit about that for sure. "Then he started attacking me. I subdued him, and here we are."
"Right." The police officer nodded. "Is your partner still in the clinic? Can I have a word with him?"
John thanked the heavens that the bobby didn't seem to notice that it was a gynecologist's office. "He's not done yet; he wasn't there when it started, so he's not going to have anything useful to say. There were witnesses in there, though. If you want to talk to them. But can I make a request?"
The officer looked up from where he was scribbling notes in a pad. "Yes?"
"Can I come back and give my statement later? Sherlock's probably almost done with his exam. I want to be there when he finishes up – he hates this kind of thing and he'll hate it worse if I'd apparently disappeared while he was gone."
The bobby's face relaxed into one of understanding and sympathy. "Of course. Me wife, she hates getting pelvic exams."
John blushed. Well, there goes Sherlock's closet. "Can you, maybe, not put that part in the report? Sherlock. . . Lestrade. . . ."
"I understand. I don't think that's exactly vital for the report myself, do you think?"
"Probably not." John's tense shoulders dropped, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, mate. Tell Lestrade I will be at the station later – sans Sherlock – to give my report. And give him my regards."
"Absolutely, Dr. Watson," the bobby replied politely. "Take care of yourself."
Nodding, John stepped back into the clinic, only to see an annoyed-looking Sherlock sitting in one of the chairs, sucking intently on a lolly. Standing up, the detective's irritation vanished into pure concern upon looking at his partner's face. "John, what-"
"Row with a pin and chip machine," John replied, smiling weakly. "Don't worry about it right now. How was your exam?"
"Wish you'd done it."
"Sherlock, you big baby."
"Only because I know I would get something better than a lollipop if you did," the detective said with a leer, wrapping his arm around John's shoulder. "We'll pick up some ice before we take you home, then off to Scotland Yard."
"How did –"
"I observe everything, and from that, I deduce everything," Sherlock purred. John wondered where he learned to make something so clinical sound so delightfully perverse. "And right now, I deduce that you need some . . . examination."
John looked up to see Sherlock's eyes fiendish with glee. He couldn't help but smile back; he could already tell that he was going to love Sherlock's version of aftercare.