Up in his bedroom, John gazed at the medal in his hand. Did Sherlock know about it? Did he know that John had tried to refuse it?
Another memory surfaced.
"Captain Watson, I've recommended that you be decorated for that incident with that bloody little terrorist."
"I rather wish you hadn't done that, sir."
"Why ever not? The ordnance officer tells me the whole hospital would have brewed up if you hadn't stopped him."
"That bloody little terrorist was all of 12 years old. He'd lost his home and family to a drone attack made by mistake. There was nothing for him here. Easy pickings for anyone offering the rewards of martyrdom. The man who shoots that bastard is the real hero."
"Well, until then, you'll have to do. Dismissed, Captain."
He'd joined the aid convoy and been seriously wounded in an ambush. The next thing he remembered was awakening in the hospital at Landstuhl, the medal on the bedside table. He'd been so zoned on pain medications that for all he knew, Mycroft could have made the presentation.
His fellow patients on the ward kept asking for the details. How had he won the decoration?
His answer was always the same, "No idea, mate. They must have gotten the wrong bloke."
Watson put the medal back in its velvet-lined box.