"Their sight was impressive when I arrived in Afghanistan. The poppy fields, stretching till the horizon, an ocean of red, moving slightly with the wind. I thought they were beautiful.
But do you know why they cultivate them down there? It is an easy way of making money. They harvest the flowers and use them to produce drugs. The Taliban sell them to Europe, even England, to fund their war.
The politicians debate shortening the funds for our soldiers, but drug users are more than generous in supporting the other side in this war."
John keeps his eyes on the bunch of poppies that Miss Hudson has placed between the glass beakers and Erlenmeyer flasks on their kitchen table in an attempt of decoration. His eyes are distant, his voice sad.
Sherlock twitches, too lightly to notice for someone as unobservant as John. Sherlock thinks of all the times he has used morphine to find relief from his mind running in circles. He sees John touching his injured shoulder unconsciously while talking about heat and sand, gunshots and poppy fields. He imagines the pain John had to go through after being hit, the pain that creeps back right now. Though it were the Taliban who did this to John, Sherlock feels ashamed. Sherlock feels like he has paid for the bullet.