Thanks to my beta, Teek, for keeping the story in a straight line, and to the best Britpicker in the world, johnsarmylady. No way I could have done this without you guys.

I can't believe for a minute that either the ACD estate or the BBC is worried that I think I own Sherlock, but apparently it is a tradition to say this: I don't own Sherlock.

Tuesday, 15:30

"John!" The name floated through the air somewhere behind Dr. John Watson as he cut through Russell Square on his way home from work to his cheap bedsit.

But people with incredibly common monikers rarely respond to unfamiliar voices calling their names. John kept walking, his cane and limp giving him an awkward gait, but not impeding his speed.

"John Watson!"

John stopped and turned around. While he never assumed people calling 'John' might be hailing him, people specifying 'John Watson' surely must be.

"Mike? Mike Stamford!" John said.

The short, overweight man in glasses puffed up to him. "I'm surprised you recognized me. I've gained quite a bit of weight since our med school days." Mike patted his protruding stomach ruefully.

"It's good to see you again, Mike," said John, smiling genuinely and easily side-stepping the land mine of weight issues.

"You, too, John. But I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?" Mike wondered.

John shrugged and gestured vaguely with his cane. "I got shot."

Mike looked nonplussed but said, "I'm done teaching classes for the day. Do you have time to grab a coffee and do some catching up?"

"Sure, my shift at the clinic where I work just ended, and I have the next two days off besides."

"Great! There's a nice coffee shop right down the street. We can talk there."

~~~/~~~

Mike insisted on treating John to coffee. Drinks in hand, Mike and John wended their way to a quiet table near the back of the shop.

"What are you doing now, Mike?" John asked curiously.

"Well, most of the year I teach classes at Barts. To bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." Mike made a wry face, apparently only half-joking.

John laughed. "I hear that."

"And you, John? You're not in the army anymore?"

"Honourably discharged on medical grounds after I was shot. Came back here, got a job as a GP at a clinic. But I am so bloody bored. Nothing but runny noses and hemorrhoids. It's quite a letdown after being a front-line trauma surgeon…and I can barely afford to live in London now, even with my army pension," John added dispiritedly.

Mike looked at him thoughtfully. "I might have a suggestion there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I know someone who needs a doctor for his next commercial climbing expedition to Mount Everest."

John burst out laughing. "Even if I were the world's leading expert on mountain climbing — which I'm not — me, on Mount Everest with this gammy leg?"

"Believe it or not, that won't be a problem. This guy always keeps his expedition doctor in base camp, which is at only 17,000 feet."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh, is that all?"

"No, really; it's not a big deal, John. The way to the base camp is nothing more than a strenuous hike. No climbing involved. And everyone on the hike carries trekking poles or walking sticks. You wouldn't look out of place at all."

John's brow furrowed. "And you know this, how?"

"Because during the part of the year when I don't teach at Barts, I'm the expedition doctor for a rival commercial group," Mike explained.

John sat back in his chair, eyebrows raised. "I'm impressed!"

Mike shrugged. "Like you, I just don't feel that I'm using my skills to my best ability on a daily basis. Even the idea of helping to mould the next generation of doctors doesn't match the thrill of working in the mountains, where something as minor as a headache can turn fatal in a matter of hours. It's like flying by the seat of your pants."

John listened, fascinated. "Well, it sounds intriguing right enough, but I don't know all that much about high-altitude medicine. I mean, I had some very limited training in it before I was deployed because there are mountains in Afghanistan, but I was assigned to the desert in the end. I don't know why anyone would even consider me."

"Ah!" said Mike, with a small, pleased smile. "The spring climbing season on Everest is right around the corner — relatively speaking, anyway — and the bloke leading the expedition just lost his doctor unexpectedly. Most of the doctors who are well qualified have already signed on with other expeditions. He won't have much left in the way of choices, because not too many people who know him want to work with him. The doctor he just lost was one of a very few who would even consider it."

"Well, ta very much for the recommendation, then!" John snickered.

Mike continued as if John hadn't spoken. "But I think you could get on with him. You're extremely level-headed, and even though I remember the famous Watson temper, it didn't come out that easily."

"So who are we talking about, then? Would I know of him?"

"Yeah, I think so: Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes, the famous British mountaineer?" John was floored. "You can't go anywhere without seeing his face plastered on some advert or other. Wasn't he just in a commercial for Jaguar at the North Pole or something?"

"That's him. He can be incredibly difficult to deal with, but I really don't think you'll have a problem. And then you could say good-bye to treating chicken pox or erections lasting longer than four hours. In the mountains, things happen fast. You'll need all your wits about you constantly. You were an army surgeon on the front lines — I think you'd be perfectly suited for the job."

"And I would be at this base-camp place and not expected to go higher?" John asked.

"Yes, you'd be at the base camp, because the cure for most medical problems on any mountain is to get the patient down as far as possible, as fast as possible. So you'd be in the expedition's medical tent at base camp, in radio contact with the higher camps. When anything serious goes wrong up high, the first thing they do is bring the patient down. If they can't get to base camp for whatever reason, they will contact you via radio or satellite phone, and you will tell them what to do."

"I have to admit, it sounds fascinating. How much do you think…" John's voice trailed off hesitantly.

Mike nodded understandingly. "As a novice in the field of high altitude medicine, you'd probably only make £9,000 for the two-month season, but some of the more experienced doctors command as much as £18,000."

John stared in shock. "For two months of work?"

"At the most. Leave late March, spend most of April acclimatizing, and the climbing season is usually over by mid-May. There's an extremely narrow window of opportunity for the actual summit attempts, and the mountain is teeming with climbers at that time of year. Sherlock runs impeccable expeditions, but there are so many disorganized groups on Everest nowadays that you're more likely than not to find someone in trouble. There's always something major going wrong that calls for a physician…always!"

"I'm ready to leave right now!" John laughed. "But I'm still not sure that I'm qualified."

"It's only early November. You'll have almost five months to study up on high-altitude medicine. I can point you to the right reference texts. I have no doubt you're up to the challenge."

John gave a small, decisive nod. "All right, then. I'll give it a try. Just about anything would be better than doing prostate exams day in and day out."

"Great." Mike pulled a pen from his jacket pocket and scribbled something on a paper napkin. "Here's the address. Sherlock works out of his flat. You can try going over there right now — I'm sure he's in. That business is his life."

"Shouldn't I phone ahead and make an appointment? Or maybe you should call and give me a recommendation up front," John said hesitantly.

"Nah. Just stop by and mention my name. Without a doctor, Sherlock can't run the kind of full-service expedition that he's known for. I think he will be over the moon to see you. Manna from heaven, in fact."

"Hope so, mate," said John. "Here goes nothing." He stood up and grabbed his cane.

"Just remember — he's not going to find it easy to sign another well-qualified doctor this close to the season, so don't accept anything under £9,000!" Mike instructed him sternly.

"Thanks, Mike, really. For the coffee and…everything," John said gratefully.

"Good luck, John," Stamford replied, little dreaming what he had set in motion.

Author's Notes

I'm not a climber myself, but this happened anyway.

The doctors' salaries mentioned here may be totally out of date by now because I got them from a book published in the early 2000s. In USD: $15,000 for a novice in the field and $30,000 for someone with experience.