Title: Needles and Thread
Characters:
Sherlock, a doctor
Rating: T
Summary:
Someone has to fix Sherlock's broken wrist. Too bad it's not who he really wants in the first place.


He panted in the alley, the adrenalin ebbed, making the pain in his wrist sharp - causing his head to spin.

He'd likely need a doctor, and he most certainly didn't want to call on his brother again.

He'd be chided for being careless.

A logo of a stethoscope was in the next alley. Likely a doctor there.

It took him longer than it should have to get there.

He rang the little bell, and there was some ruckus including a baby's wail before the door opened.

"Come in, sir." he couldn't be more than twenty, baby juggled in his arms, no sign of a wife or someone to watch the child while he took care of the minor problem. "Just sit up, right there." he gestured to the chair, already decked with white paper. Placed the baby in her playpen.

Though his head spun, he liked to exercise - observing the room. The young man was alone. Wife dead or out for the evening. The child was well-taken care of, but that was a given considering the young man's appearance. Dark circles under his eyes, being both the doctor and the caretaker of the child.

His examination was rather quick, the cuts and the bruising on his face, the broken wrist.

"It would seem you know what the problem is, I hardly need to tell you. You shouldn't be getting into fights."

"They kidnapped me."

"And judging by your coat, they've paid well in fire and gasoline, yes? Though it is not my business and if they kidnapped you then you did rightly."

He washed his hands, then rummaged through the medicine cabinet. "You're not allergic to anything are you?"

"Only to idiots."

The young man handed him the two little white pills. "They're acetaminophen. Should take down the pain and the inflammation."

"Don't doctors inject?"

"If you were in a lot of pain, I would. You seem to be holding up nicely." He washed his hands, set an icepack against Sherlock's wrist for the swelling, and made a quick work of the cuts on his face.

"Nasty people, very nasty," he mumbled, mostly to himself.

"Nasty," echoed the child from her crib. "Yes, Nala. Nasty. Well, you'll have a rather terrible black eye, sir. Likely a headache in the morning. And after I set your wrist you shouldn't be doing any manual labor or getting out of handcuffs for quite sometime." he set the bone, though Sherlock winced at the pain. "You're doing very fine." he mixed the plaster and bandaged the hand with gauze for the mold. It was all a strangely quick process.

"Oh, no - just a splint. That will be fine."

"If you were worried about being clumsy you should have carried a hairpin. This should be on for about six weeks if you want it properly healed." His tone indicated no objection.

Sherlock huffed anyway.

"I can charge you triple for my services for inconvience. Since it's likely they took your wallet and bank cards."

"Smart one, are you? Well, they weren't that smart."

"Of course. Have to be in this business. Do you need to phone family?"

"Don't have any."

"They're dead or think you are, and you like that situation. Family is all…"

"….you got. Yes, I have been so reliably informed."

"Ah, there's a breach then. You don't talk to them because you don't trust them."

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"If you want to talk to someone," he said, drying his fingertips, "Try the monks in Tibet. They make excellent listeners. Now, can I have a name for my records or are you just going to remain anonymous? Aliases will do, we don't check."

"Basil Rigsby," The alias came easy.

"Hmm. Sign here please. And I normally don't charge, but you seem the clientele that could pay."

He handed the young doctor a few pound notes, but he didn't count it. "Fine."

"Now I would hope that you would see the family doctor in a few weeks. It might itch after a while, for some it's right away. Means it's in the healing process - I wouldn't have it removed for six weeks, if I were you and wanted to keep that hand's use. Now, there's matter of accommodation. Do you have a room to go back to tonight?"

Silence from Sherlock.

"That would be a no, then." The doctor replied, picking up the child that was now quite nearly asleep. "You can sleep on the couch in my office."

Sherlock thrust his hands in his pockets for more notes.

"No, no Basil. Don't have to pay me. Just be gone in the morning before my partner wakes up. Usually drunk, that one."

Partner. The child wasn't biologically his then. That made sense.

He nodded and moved to the couch.

But Sherlock did not sleep - he couldn't. He was too restless and lonely to want to. Went the clock chimed a gentle five, he was out of the tiny office and down the street.

People could be so kind, it was foreign and strange.

The doctor hadn't noticed his refusal to make direct eye contact, the stupid -

Or maybe he didn't judge.

All this line of thinking made him think of John, and he had to move on - to finish what he had started so he could return home.

SH SH SH SH SH SH

The next week Doctor Flynn was woken up by a rather sizable delivery of new equipment, as well a certificate for all-expenses paid to the rehabilitation facility in Surrey.

There was no name to thank the benefactor, but the doctor wasn't a stupid man. The only one that hadn't been a regular was the strange Mr. Rigsby. He must hold a high office - or at least know someone. The real question was - who was he really?

A/N: Basil is a reference to Basil Rathbone who played Sherlock Holmes, Rigsby is in reference to Terrance Righby who played Doctor Watson - though not in the same series. Alongside Rigsby was Tom Baker as Sherlock and alongside Rathbone was Nigel Bruce as Doctor Watson.

Rathbone was also in the Errol Flynn version of Robin Hood. He was also in a spoof swashbuckling film of the same era titled The Court Jester.

I also want to thank all of you that have reviewed, you will get a more personalized shout-out next chapter!