Oneword: Medical

The two Londoners had unknowingly pinned a Gallifreyan against a brick wall in a dark alley. Having caught him suspiciously breaking into a high-tech facility, Sherlock feared that the tall, gangly man in the tweed jacket had been another member of Moriarty's web. John, not familiar with the technology contained in the stranger's little green-bulbed instrument with extendable claws, had pointed his gun at him for a sense of safety.
"Whatever went wrong," pleaded the man, both hands in the air against the wall, "I can assure you with... um.. about eighty six percent certainty that it wasn't me. Probably."
John wrinkled his nose at Sherlock in confusion. "Who are you?" he demanded of the stranger, lowering his gun by a couple inches.
"I'm the Doctor," he claimed, eyes darting back and forth between the darkly-clad man whose cheekbones he could sympathize with, to a shorter blond man who would almost remind him of the Master's last form if not for his kind, tired eyes.
"Yeah right," snorted John, almost surprised Sherlock  had not yet spoken up, he seemed to be further inspecting their captive... "You're hardly old enough to have graduated University, never mind medical school."
John was surprised, then, to see the stranger in his bow-tie, who couldn't have been more than 30, smile with eyes which were older than any he'd ever seen. "You must be an actual doctor, then," guessed this fantastical being, reaching out a friendly hand. "A doctor with a gun and a brooding friend like this? I'll bet you've got a great story to tell. Love a good story."