John thinks he probably shouldn't be returning to crime scenes so soon after nearly dying, he should be staying at home, resting and recovering. But, to quote Sherlock, that would be insufferably boring. He's more like Sherlock than anybody realises.

Sally Donavan is disgustingly smug the next time he sees her, especially as he is technically the victim here. There's some little voice telling him that Police should at least make an effort to be sympathetic, but he's too tired to care. Besides, if she were being sympathetic it would probably annoy him more, because he would know that any sympathy he received would be fake, from Sally at least.

"I told you," she crows, a smile clawing its way onto her face, "remember? Should have gone for a safer hobby. Sherlock Holmes will just get you killed."

And that is it. It's not even bad by Sally's standards, and he knows that Sherlock doesn't care about all the small minded, spiteful comments, but John does, and he will not stand for it any longer. Besides, they're being directed at him now, so Sherlock can't roll his eyes when he reacts.

John spins, stares Sally straight in the eyes and he can tell in unnerves her. Good. They haven't seen the soldier before, this was obviously a mistake, "Tell me," he says, "whose fault was it when I got shot in Afghanistan?"

"The – the one who shot you?"

She sounds unsure, obviously completely at a loss as to why John is talking about Afghanistan, and watching his eyes, those soldier's eyes.

"Precisely," says John. "It was the fault of the one who shot me. Not anybody else in my regiment or the higher ups, just the one who shot me. And I'll tell you something else. It was my choice to become a soldier, I knew the risks and I accepted them. I knew the risks of chasing criminals around London, and I accepted them. Don't think for one second that you are some bearer of some infinite wisdom, Sally Donavan, because let me tell you, all your ill informed prattling and completely inaccurate, prejudiced accusations against Sherlock do is make you sound like an idiot."

There is silence, but John can see the gears slowly grinding in her head.

"Ah, now you're going to ask why I run around with Sherlock, accompany him on cases? I could give you a million reasons, but you'd never believe one of them, so I don't think I'll give you the pleasure."

John started to turn, leaving a pleasingly speechless Donavan behind, when a thought occurred to him and he turned back, "One more thing before I go. Apart from it being gross professional misconduct to insult not only a member of the public, but a man who helps you with your cases, free of charge, but also you are insulting my best friend and I don't take kindly to that. If you continue rest assured I will make life very difficult for you."

Donavan's inherent confidence seemed to have returned, "How?" she sneered.

John smirked, "You don't want to know."

As threats went it was clichéd and old, but it wasn't the words that made Sally Donavan hesitate, it was the completely unfamiliar look on John Watson's face.

And if the fridge in 221B Baker Street soon became free of most experiments, and Sherlock stopped taking John's things without asking (he still took them after asking, sometimes even when John said no. At least John knew where his things had gone) and Sherlock stopped insulting his blog, no one mentioned it.