Sherlock had the information he needed from Lestrade, but the policeman seemed in no hurry to leave. Sherlock opted to settle at his laptop and proceed to ignore him, expecting that he would wander off. Greg was in a talkative mood, though.
"Nice little set, that," he commented, indicating the small framed display near the kitchen archway. "Fifteen rounds, with casings, everything from a .22 short to a 7.62 millimeter Soviet sniper rifle cartridge," he mused, peering at them.
When Sherlock didn't answer, Lestrade straightened and prompted, "For a study in ballistics, then?"
Sherlock didn't bother to slow in his typing or to glance up. "More of a meditation on the deadly effectiveness of any of them," he said absently.
"Well, where did they come from?" Lestrade wondered.
"Gathered over time from bodies that came in for autopsies, of course," Sherlock murmured, distracted. "It didn't take long to amass the collection. It seems the country has weapons from every era still in active service, in some of the more remote areas."
"You can't just pluck bullets from dead bodies and carry them home!" Lestrade objected. "That's evidence! And I don't think Britain is quite that bad."
Sherlock looked up. "Not Britain, Lestrade. Afghanistan." He nodded to the little frame. "Those are John's bullets."