Feb. 21st, 2013

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The holodeck was empty, black walls and yellow grid, and John's footsteps echoed as he walked across it. He moved slow, reluctant, his heart thudding dull in his chest. He still thought this was a bad idea-- but as usual, no one had bothered to ask what he thought.

Finally he stopped, almost in one corner of the big room, and turned to face Sherlock like a boxer in the opposite corner. His hands balled into fists at his side, his jaw set.

"Computer," Sherlock said, his eyes not leaving John's, "load program. London 2012, St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

The city street rose to life around him, and John kept his eyes firmly forward, not looking up at the roof now looming overhead. "I don't suppose it matters to you that I really don't want to do this."
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It was hours later before John finally found Sherlock, stretched out underneath John's desk inside the sick bay office.

"Where have you been?" he had the gall to ask, to which John's only response was to turn away and breath slowly in and out through his nose until he lost the urge to upend a cold cup of tea over Sherlock's head.

"We have to talk," he said when he turned around. "Now."


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Dr. John Watson

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