The Things We Left Behind

Chapter 2

John was scanning the job offers in the paper when Sherlock wandered into the living room the next morning wearing a dark blue robe. He walked right past John and sank down on the couch, staring off into the distance.

“Not a morning person?” John said, glancing at his watch, which read 10:15 AM. When he didn’t get a response from Sherlock he looked over at the other boy, who had his fingers steepled underneath his chin and had his gaze fixed on the opposite wall. “Sherlock?”

“There’s an apprenticeship open at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. It’s not far from here,” Sherlock said, ignoring John’s question.

John glanced down at the paper in his hands, and then reached over the side of his armchair and retrieved his laptop from the floor beside him. He popped the top open, and as he was typing ‘St. Bartholomew’s Hospital’ into the search bar he said, “Do you have a job?”

“No.”

John looked up from his screen, frowning slightly at Sherlock. “Why?” he asked.

“Boring,” Sherlock said, drawing out the ‘o’. “They’re all so boring.”

John clicked on the link for St. Bartholomew’s website. “What about Scotland Yard?” he asked, squinting at the hospital’s hours. “Your brother said yesterday that they had a position open for you if you wanted to take it.”

“The ‘detectives’ of Scotland Yard,” Sherlock said, his voice scornful. “Tripping over their own crime scenes.”

John sighed. “All right, fine.” He folded his laptop and stood up, setting the computer on the side table. “I’m going to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital to ask about that apprenticeship. Hopefully they don’t require a medical degree.”

John felt a pang of sadness when he thought of medical school. Through high school, when he’d realized he had a passion for medicine, he’d taken every course available and applied for numerous scholarships, but despite all his hard work he’d graduated with barely £10,000 in scholarships—not enough for a compete medicinal degree. His parents, though they barely had any money to spare as it was, had promised to try and salvage enough money to send him to university.

Now they were gone.

John swallowed the lump that rose in his throat and left the flat before he could do anything embarrassing. It was only once he was in his car and pulling away from 221B Baker Street that he lost his hold on his emotions and hot tears spilled down his cheeks, leaving the taste of salt in John’s mouth.

By the time he reached St. Bartholomew’s Hospital John had wiped away all signs of his earlier distress and had filled the space left behind with a harsh determination. He slammed the car door behind him and walked briskly up to the clear double doors. Through them he could see a white-painted interior and a wooden counter, made distorted by the glass.

John pulled open one of the doors and slipped inside. The door shut behind him with a gust of air and a soft whooshing sound, and the young girl standing behind the counter looked up with an automatic smile.

“Hello, welcome to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital,” she said as John approached the counter. “How may I help you?”

“I heard you had an apprenticeship open here?” John said, sounding slightly unsure. “I was wondering if I could apply.”

The girl—who looked to be just a bit older than John—paused a moment before nodding. “Sure, I’ll get the paperwork.” She ducked momentarily below the counter, emerging a few moments later with a small packet of papers. “Fill these out please,” she instructed, handing the stack to John.