Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of Arthur Conan Doyle, nor any of the various dramatic incarnations thereof. No profit is being made from this work.

Note: Welcome to this story! This one sort of coalesced out of many years' worth of ideas and sources. Part of it came from an idea I've had for a while, about what sort of crime I think Sherlock could be really useful and helpful at. As the story grew, I realized that I had an opportunity to use a couple of characters that I haven't yet used, and to have some fun playing with them.

As of this story, John is on an assignment at the Royal London Hospital, in their Accident and Emergency unit. The first scene is an homage to another show, set in the emergency room of a Chicago hospital and featuring George Clooney . . . and, no, it really isn't the show you're thinking of right now! That show handled this situation . . . weirdly. It fit with the tone that they usually struck, but there was just something about it that seemed off. So I've decided to give John a crack at the situation, see what he can do with it.

Enjoy this story, and I'll see you at the end.

1. Full Moon, Saturday Night

"Push, Louella," John said. "Push hard."

"No!" the girl on the exam bed cried. She tried to struggle away, but another contraction seized her, and she howled in pain.

John gritted his teeth and tried to remember to smile. "You're doing fine, Louella. Another few pushes, and you'll have your baby."

"I'm not having a baby!" Louella snapped.

"Yes, you are," Louella's mother said, peering over John's shoulder. "I can see it coming right out of you."

"It's not a baby," Louella said. "I ate something bad tonight. It's stomach cramps, it is!"

"Mrs. Parsons, you're not exactly helping," John said.

Louella's mother laughed. "Well, we thought it was stomach cramps, didn't we? Came straight to A&E. But it looks like we were wrong."

"I'm not wrong!" Louella said.

John could see the baby's head emerging. "Can I have a cot and a warming lamp over here?" he called to a nurse. "Push, Louella."

"I'm not having a baby!" Louella screamed, just as the head emerged fully.

"Louella, you are fifteen years old," Mrs. Parsons retorted. "I'm your mum. I think I know better than you when you're having a baby and when you're not."

"And I'm a doctor," John added, wiping the baby's nose and mouth with a wad of gauze. "And there is a baby that is nearly here and wants just one more little push, Louella."

"No!" Louella screamed. "I am not having a baby!"

The baby's body slid free, and John caught the little girl and transferred her to the cot. "Louella, it's a girl. Would you like to see?"

"Oh, she's adorable," Mrs. Parsons cooed. "She looks just like you when you were a baby."

Louella pushed herself up on her elbows. "That's not my baby."

John clamped off the cord. He almost offered Mrs. Parsons the honour of cutting the cord, but he caught a glimpse of her face and decided that he did not want her to have scissors in her hand at that moment.

"That's your baby, all right," Mrs. Parsons said. "So who else does she belong to?"

"I told you, mum, I haven't got a baby!"

"Yes, you do! I saw it come out of you. So who's the dad?"

A nurse arrived, and John gave her a weak smile. "I'm going to deliver the placenta. Wrap up the baby and call a social worker. Don't leave these two alone." He turned back to Louella, who was currently arguing with her mother about whether a non-existent baby could have a father. "Sorry to interrupt this tender mother-daughter moment, but I need you to push again."

"I'm not having another baby," Louella moaned.

"No, you're having a placenta. Just do this quickly and you can go back to discussing ownership of the lovely little girl in the cot."

After the birth was completed and the Parsons family left in the care of the social worker, John retreated to the break room for a cup of strong tea. He was contemplating whether or not to add sugar when Dr. Wendy DeNora, the A&E chief, walked in, carrying an armful of charts, her hair straggling down from its chignon.

"Dr. Watson," she said, "I cannot tell you how grateful we are that you were able to work tonight. And how sorry I am that this was your first day with us."

John smiled. "Well. I saw worse in Afghanistan."

Dr. DeNora laughed. "Ah, but the night is still young. And they're still coming in."

John decided against the sugar in favour of a large gulp of tea immediately. "What's up next?"

"You've got a choice." Dr. DeNora consulted the first two charts. "Arse full of darts from a pub bet in one, and, in two, a granny stabbed with a knitting needle by a jealous rival at the care home."

"Lovely. And the third?"

Dr. DeNora glanced at the other chart, and a puzzled frown crinkled her brow. "Er . . . stigmata."

John opened his mouth, and then recalled that he lived with Sherlock Holmes, and a patient complaining of stigmata was not, in fact, the strangest thing he had heard all week. "Saturday night, I suppose," he said. "I'm C of E, so I'll give the stigmata a miss. How about I take the pub bet?"

Dr. DeNora flashed him a grateful smile. "Would you? I'm pants at making small talk about football."

Just as John reached out to take the chart, the intercom crackled to life. "Royal London A&E personnel, please stand by. Gas explosion in Whitechapel, four minor, two moderate injuries coming your way, ETA five minutes. Minor burns and smoke inhalation."

John and Dr. DeNora exchanged worried glances. John took another swig of his tea, and then they both rushed out into the main A&E area. "Clear the trauma centre," Dr. DeNora ordered. She handed the charts to a resident. "Find some medical students. If one of them knows about football, that's a plus. And call in Psych for the stigmata."

"For the what?" the resident asked, but Dr. DeNora was already racing for the ambulance bay, with John hot on her heels.

The first trolleys were already coming in, and John's heart chilled when he saw police uniforms. He nearly stopped breathing altogether when DI Lestrade and DS Donovan were wheeled in, grimy with soot and gasping in oxygen masks.

"Smoke inhalation," the paramedic said. "Male victim's a bit scorched on his left arm, minor second-degree flash burn, his jacket took the worst of it. Female victim has a sprained knee."

"Thanks." John took Lestrade's trolley and wheeled him into an exam area. Lestrade cracked his eyes open and slowly focussed on John.

"John Watson," he croaked. "Fancy . . . meeting you here."

"I work here," John said, clipping a pulse oxygen probe to Lestrade's finger. "What's your excuse?"

Lestrade choked out a laugh that quickly became a cough.

"Right," John went on. "That'll be a chest X-ray for you." He signalled to a nurse. "CBC, metabolic profile and blood gas, and he'll need a chest X-ray." He picked up a pair of scissors and began to cut away Lestrade's burned jacket sleeve.

"Started out as a murder," Lestrade gasped. "Abandoned council house, in Whitechapel. Routine. I . . . I only called Sherlock because . . . because I wanted it done . . . quickly, so I could get home . . . end of my shift."

John paused, scissors still in hand. "Sherlock was there?"

"Don't know . . . what happened. The building . . . suddenly on fire." Lestrade took a deep pull at his oxygen mask. "Sergeant Donovan got me out . . . I tripped and fell on her . . . sprained her knee . . . sorry."

Donovan gave a weak chuckle from the next bay. "You can fetch my tea, till I can walk again." She turned her head and seemed to register John for the first time. "The Freak's fine, last I looked," she said. "Got there just as the place blew, I suppose. Last I saw, Anderson was sitting on him, trying to keep him from running inside. Lunatic."

She had no time to say anything else, as an orderly wheeled her away to Radiology. But her words were enough to calm John's racing heart so that he could assess Lestrade's burn, tape a temporary dressing over it, and send him away for X-rays of his own. He moved to the next police constable, and then the next.

"Dr. Watson." All of a sudden, Dr. DeNora was at his side. "Are you all right? You've gone white as a ghost."

John forced a smile. "Fine. It's just . . . my flatmate – my friend was at that fire."

Dr. DeNora frowned. "Shall I send you home? Won't affect your hire, you'll finish out your assignment here."

"No, I'm fine. Can't do anything about it now." John took a deep breath. "If he's hurt, I'll find out. Meanwhile, I'd rather be working. Keep my mind off of it."

"All right. But let me know if you need a break."

"Actually . . ." John glanced around the trauma centre, where the initial flurry of activity was beginning to die down as the fire victims were assessed and sent for X-rays or burn treatment. "Something else, just to clear my head. Shall I have a look at the stigmata?"

Dr. DeNora laughed. "Be my guest."

John worked steadily through the night. After a confusing forty minutes spent explaining to a distraught young man that the wounds on his hands and feet came from an ordinary kitchen knife rather than the Holy Spirit and that, yes, antipsychotics did have to be taken on a regular schedule regardless of how one felt that day, he went to the next bay, where DS Donovan was back from Radiology. He wrapped her knee in an elastic bandage and laid cold packs on either side.

"You're worried about him," Donovan said.

John nodded. There was no need to name names in this conversation.

"Don't be. He's weird and crazy, but he's not stupid. Anderson was holding him back, but he stood down when he saw Lestrade and me coming outside."

"That's good. That's good of him." But just to be sure, John patted the pocket where he kept his mobile. "Be back in just a tick."

John waited until he was on the other side of the curtain to check his messages. Nothing. Well, Mycroft would alert him if there were any cause for alarm. He went to the supply cabinet and fetched a knee brace for Donovan, and put in an order for crutches. She'd need them once she was discharged.

Dawn was just beginning to glow over the city when John's shift ended. Weary and impatient to be home, he didn't bother to wash his face, but simply changed his green scrubs for his regular button-down shirt and trousers and shrugged into his jacket. The Tube was mercifully empty at this hour, the end-of-the-night bar crowd gone home, giving way to early Sunday morning calm. At last, the train pulled in to Baker Street station, and John found the energy to sprint around the corner and down the street to his front door.

He barely remembered to shut the door gently so as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson, but as soon as he mounted the stairs to his front door, he saw that he need not have bothered. Filthy and dishevelled, Sherlock was pacing back and forth in the sitting room, ignoring the cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson tried to offer him. She smiled in relief when she spotted John.

"Oh, John, dear, I'm so glad you're here. There's been the most awful fire, and Sherlock simply won't calm down."

John nodded to her. "Yes, I know." He caught Sherlock's arm as he approached. "Sherlock. They're going to be fine."

Sherlock paused in his pacing and blinked at John. "What?"

"Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan. They were brought to the Royal London. I helped to take care of them. They're going to be all right."

"Lestrade?"

John checked his watch. "They had him in for observation and oxygen for a few hours. He should be discharged fairly soon, and they'll send him home. Donovan's going to be on crutches for a bit, but they are both going to be fine."

Sherlock blinked, as if he were not sure what to do with this information. Before he could wave it away, John took advantage of his momentary silence to lead him to the kitchen table. "Sit down, I want to take a look at you."

"I'm fine," Sherlock mumbled.

"I spent half of my shift worrying about you. Indulge me for five minutes." John quickly looked in Sherlock's eyes, ears, nose and throat, and felt along his limbs. He discovered a few bruises on Sherlock's arms, which he guessed came from the force with which Anderson had had to restrain him. But Anderson had done a good job, and Sherlock was otherwise unharmed by the fire. John allowed himself to sag with relief.

"You're fine."

Sherlock snorted. "That's what I said."

"Have a cup of tea with Mrs. Hudson. I'll – I'll be back in a few minutes."

John ignored the puzzled look Sherlock shot him and stumbled off to the lavatory. He locked the door and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. Finally alone, he scrubbed his hands over his face and took a few deep, shuddering breaths. And if some moisture happened to leak from his eyes, it was certainly a side effect of adrenaline withdrawal, not overwhelmed tears at all.