The Trouble With Sentiment

Chapter Eight

John finished dictating his final notes into his digital recorder, then stretched. His schedule had been jam-packed. On top of the patients with the usual sniffles, aches, and pains had come the whimpering sods seeking a hangover cure. It was always like this the day after New Year's. John winced as he dropped a chart into his outbox. Well, all except for that last lad who had drunkenly tied a sparkler to his willy to impress his girlfriend. That was a new one.

His email pinged. A message came through granting him access to JAMA, The Journal of the American Medical Association. After Sherlock had explained that Vivian had only pretended to read the Christmas cracker joke, John had started searching through various medical journals to see if any of her symptoms matched up with a specific reading disability. So far, nothing had, but hopefully this latest one would provide some answers. Noting the late hour and in need of a hot cuppa, he decided to continue his research from home. John grabbed his coat and left his office.

As he rounded the corner, he noticed a red light was on for one of the exam room doors. It indicated whether a patient was waiting to be seen, but that didn't make sense now. The front staff had clocked out an hour ago. Someone must have left it on by accident. He opened the door to flip the switch and froze.

"Took you long enough," Sherlock said, fiddling with something on his lap. It appeared to be a contraption made out of tongue depressors and adhesive bandages.

Vivian, who was seated in the other visitor chair, had one as well. She gave him a cheery wave, then eyed Sherlock. "Ready?"

"Now!"

A flash of movement. Two cotton balls soared across the room toward an open canister on the far counter. One ball landed inside, while the other bounced off the edge and tumbled to the floor to join its scattered fellows.

"Ha! A perfect parabola," Sherlock crowed.

Vivian lifted her nose in the air. "The draft from the open door threw mine off."

"What draft? You just failed to build yours right."

"I'm the one who showed you how to do it."

"And I improved on your crude design."

"I'll show you crude." Vivian aimed a kick at Sherlock's foot.

John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his face straight. He cleared his throat, and they both looked over at him. "Did you seriously make cotton ball catapults out of my tongue depressors?"

"It wasn't my idea," Sherlock said, as if he hadn't just been an enthusiastic participant.

Vivian's smile turned sheepish. "Sorry, I got bored since I couldn't read the magazines."

Laughter bubbled up in John's chest, but he called on his military training to hold it off. Keeping his expression stoic, he approached Vivian and held out a palm. "Let's see it then."

Smile faltering, she handed it to him. "You're not mad, are you? I'll clean up the mess."

John gave the contraption a thorough inspection. Forcing a frown, he offered it back. She took it, eyes round like a school child expecting a scolding. He finally nodded. "That's not bad, but if you add an extra tongue depressor to the base, it'll launch higher."

Vivian stared at him for a second, then threw her head back and laughed. Unable to help himself, John joined her. Sherlock rolled his eyes at them.

"And how would you know that?" she asked John.

"Doctors get bored too," he said with a grin. "We have an annual competition at the office. I won first place last year."

Sherlock held up his device. "Mine has an extra tongue depressor on the base and beneath the launch arm." He smirked at Vivian. "I told you it would work better that way."