albany street barracks. part 1.

They call him from the barracks two days after Khan and his -- God, will he have to categorise it as a date from here on out, shit, informing him that he got the job and will he please fill out these one hundred official forms, forward his military papers and, of course, quit his old job. The latter, at least, he does very happily, trying not to savour the look on old Dr. Johnson’s face too much, though it’s a losing battle. The rest is a Sisyphean task and he’s ready to let the rocks roll, is John.

Mary hugs him, when he tells her. A long, warm embrace, her arms around his neck while she whispers against his earlobe: He’s been good on you, hasn’t he? Whoever he is, Mr. Mysterious.

And John thinks, yes, Mr. Mysterious has been very good on him, indeed.


-*-


Two weeks later, he shows up at Block A in the Regent’s Park Barracks, commonly referred to as Albany Street Barracks, and gets to work, finally.

The clinic is made up of two offices and six examination rooms lined up with a hallway running down the middle -- and overseen by Captain Davies, a much more teamwork-oriented superior than Dr. Johnson ever was. They eat lunch together at officers mess the first day, the (other) Captain giving John a very superficial tour in their free window of time between twelve hundred thirty hours and thirteen hundred hours, the barracks laid out like most other barracks John’s seen, systems familiar, customs well-known. They’re saluted by the large groups of privates filtering past them on their way to the mess hall, some of them looking at him curiously when they think he doesn’t notice.

Unfamiliar face, John knows how it goes.


-*-


He’s only halfway through his second day on duty when he’s recognised by the first of the squaddies. John is doing some routine blood work, because Private Mottershead is complaining about a sore throat and increased frequency of urination, so he needs to make sure, the man isn’t going to spread -- say, gonorrhea to everyone in the compound, John knows how soldiers get. Some of them sure stick their dicks in anything remotely humanoid, surprisingly often each other as well and an outbreak of STDs in the barracks right before deployment definitely qualifies for a bit not good.

“Sir,” Mottershead finally says as John finishes his blood sample, closing off the entry site with a little cotton and tape. The boy has been staring at him intently for the past minute, so John knew it was coming. He raises an eyebrow, the only response the Private gets. “Aren’t you the Dr. Watson who blogged about Sherlock Holmes?”

John’s face hardens for a moment while he puts the blood sample away for analysis. “That would be me,” he answers after another second, then reaches out and bends Mottershead’s arm for him, since the boy didn’t have the wits about him to do so by himself. “Keep your arm like this for a couple of minutes, it’ll stop the bleeding quicker.”

Mottershead nods absentmindedly, still watching John with some interest. “Too bad how he ended,” he says after a while, getting up from the stool he’s been sitting on and making ready to leave, putting on his beret with the tug-tug movement that becomes second nature after just a few days enlisted. John remembers. “I really liked him.”

Managing a smile, John nods and sees him out, telling him to come back the following Thursday for his results.

Yeah, I liked him too, he thinks.


-*-


“Are you married, Watson,” asks Captain Davies the next day at mess.

“No,” replies John with a small smile, “no, I don’t think I’m really husband material.”

“Ah,” says Davies, “then again, who is?”

“The Lumpy Jumpers,” John smiles, referring to the smaller, but rather hardcore percentage of the enlisted that are women, he’s had one in with a pregnancy scare already and two who needed extra painkillers prescribed.

“Indeed, the Lumpy Jumpers...”

They both chuckle, until the next female major passes by their table.


-*-


Thursday, Mottershead returns for his test results.

“Congratulations, you’ve got gonorrhea,” John tells him, first things first.

“Shit,” he replies. At John’s raised eyebrow and very unimpressed expression, he quickly adds, “sorry, sir, but shit.”

“Sit,” John tells him, pointing at the chair in front of his desk, Mottershead pulling off his beret and sitting down quickly. Walking around his desk, John pulls out some forms and slides them over. “I need you to contact every single person you’ve had sex with the last month and tell them you might have been contagious at the time.”

“That’s easily done, sir, there’s only one.”

John pauses, halfway through filling out a prescription of antibiotics, looking up at the boy who appears very uncomfortable, very embarrassed and very, very lost. A sigh and John licks his lips, straightening up. “Then, I guess we know where you got it from.”

“I don’t understand, sir -- we were each other’s, you know… first.”

“Yes, well, obviously she lied.”

Mottershead falls quiet and John returns to filling out his prescriptions, antibiotics and doxycycline, until he can tell that he’s being watched again. Flourishing his way through his signature, he raises his head and meets the boy’s gaze straight-on, one eyebrow going up, challengingly. Yeah, it asks, wordlessly.

“He,” the boy says, then falters to a halt.

“Excuse me?”

“You said she, sir, but it’s a he and he lied,” he sounds unbelievably shameful.

John grabs the two prescriptions, walking around the desk again and stopping next to the chair where Mottershead is sitting, head bowed and hands clasped in his lap. Holding out the small slips of paper, he feels his voice soften slightly.

“Does he work in the barracks, Private?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I want you to leave his name here for me, so I can find him and give him some sex ed, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can pick up your prescriptions at any pharmacy after sixteen hundred hours.”

“Thank you, sir.”


-*-


His name is Daniel Hayden, Half Screw, 25 years old. Should know better, John thinks -- and books him for an unsolicited meeting the following day.


-*-


Hayden stands at attention in front of his desk, his beret at a perfect angle and his boots too shiny even by military standards, they look like Gucci, privately bought gear. Fancier than standard issue. Oh, so he’s that type of guy.

John asks him to sit down. He takes off his beret and does so.

“You asked to see me, Captain,” he inquires.

“Are you sexually active, Lance Corporal?”

“Pardon, sir?”

“You heard me.”

“I -- yes, sir, but I don’t --”

“Have you recently been tested for any STDs?”

“No, sir, but I --”

“Do you always use a condom?”

“Sir, I --”

“Listen, I don’t want these barracks hit by a gonorrhea outbreak and I have reason to believe you’re carrying it around.”

“Sir --”

“So while I can’t force you to get tested, I can inform you that I intend to turn you in to your commanding officer for sexual misconduct with a lower-ranking squaddy if you don’t.”

Hayden eventually agrees to get tested. And treated. And apologise nicely like a good boy to Mottershead, possibly scrubbing some floors in his sleeping quarters, too. In return, John doesn’t alert the sarge.


-*-


“The boys are dropping by for free condoms in bloody hoards these days,” Davies notes a week later over lunch.

John takes a long drink of his glass, smirking slightly as he puts it down, one eyebrow going up. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Wise of them.”