John doesn't get enough credit sometimes, but unless he is extraordinary in what he does, why else would Sherlock fall in love with him?

2. The fight and the A&E

'You could've easily stitched me up at home. We would've been done long ago,' complained Sherlock.

'Not after running all over town on three hours of sleep over two days. Plus, it was a nasty bump you had on the head. You'd better have it x-rayed, just in case,' John replied patiently.

Sherlock huffed, scowled and pouted, making John shake his head and hide his amusement as best he could. Sometimes he can be such a kid.

John had fallen asleep and woke with a start when Sherlock's name was called. A nurse took them to an exam room. After a few minutes, a doctor came in with some paperwork in hand. 'So Mr. Holmes, you have a knife wound and a possible concussion? I'm Doctor McKenzie. Let's have a look at the wound while we wait for the x-ray machines to free up.'

'I'm only here because my doctor refused to treat me!' spat Sherlock, glaring at John.

'Oh, you're also a doctor? Where do you practice, Dr...'

'Watson - John Watson. Please don't take anything he says personally, my friend here is just a bit grumpy. I'm concerned about the concussion, that's why I brought him in. He was a bit dazed when it happened.' Then, remembering her question he told her about his work, slightly embarrassed that it was mere locum work. At that moment he envied her. His training had been focused on emergency and trauma after all, and he missed it.

Dr. Mackenzie just smiled and said she'd be looking into the head injury. While examining the wound, she asked how he had got into this mess. Sherlock merely huffed, so John told her what happened.

...

They had been chasing a murderer that day. With a quick nod of understanding, Sherlock and John had split up to corner him. Seeing himself trapped, the man had decided to take a stand and fight. He had a knife and knew how to use it, having previously killed five people with it. Sherlock had already reached him, while John was still running towards them from the opposite direction. John saw the knife draw an arc in the air and a line of blood appear on Sherlock's shirt, right across the abdomen. His throat went dry and his legs turned to clay as he struggled to speed up. Sherlock had recoiled to get away from the knife, but tripped against the kerb behind him. His opponent saw him off balance and kicked him hard. Sherlock landed heavily between the brick wall and the pavement. John feared his friend had hit his head, but there was no time to think about it now. He crashed against the murderer's side, sending him flying.

At such moments, John was forever thankful for his military training, which had made him an accomplished fighter. A burly man shaped like a boulder, the murderer scrambled to his feet surprisingly quickly for someone his size. John circled him slowly, placing himself between Sherlock and the killer. The man grinned and teased him, waving his knife. John tried to remain calm and alert. Why is Sherlock still on the ground, he fretted, is he unconscious? No, keep your mind on your opponent, Watson. Later. He's right handed. I need him to try to slash me like he just did Sherlock, then I can grab his wrist and he'll have the back of his arm towards me. Not yet. Not yet. NOW!

Facing his opponent brought to mind his old drill Sergeant's lessons: 'Keep it short, simple, dirty and efficient. Two or three strikes.' Without thinking, he let his body react on its own. Before the man lashed out from left to right, John stepped in and, with his right hand, held the armed hand before it could strike. This left his opponent's back of the arm and ribs exposed, the other hand blocked by his own body. 'Elbows and knees are much stronger than fists' were the Sergeant's words. John's left elbow automatically recoiled and hit the man's face, a strike in itself powerful enough to knock out and disable any attacker. Yet, he continued pushing with the elbow and, using his legs and hip as a lever, made the killer topple down in a circular fluid motion. He followed the fall with a neck pin which, once you had the right technique, required little force to make your opponent pass out. Still blocking the armed hand, he slid his left arm across the man's neck and held tightly to the shirt. A simple twist of the fist made his ulna press against the throat, enough to disable. To kill if he kept it there. But no need today.

…..

Sherlock was dazed, having bumped his head against the wall. But seeing John circling the murderer made him fear for the doctor and he desperately tried to stand up and help, without success. The man was taller and bulkier than John. Through his foggy brain he saw John feint, back up just enough to get out of the knife's range, then at the next attack, step in close to hold his attacker's wrist. A bold and risky move. In less than fifteen seconds, the murderer was unconscious on the ground, tied up.

Next thing he knew, John was crouching at his side, lifting his eyelids. 'Sherlock, are you all right?' John was a bit alarmed at first, as Sherlock stared with unfocused eyes, a manic grin on his face.

'Sherlock! Can you hear me? Are you all right?'

His friend started to giggle. Definitely not good, John thought. But, just then, Sherlock spoke calmly. 'Yes, John, I'm fine. I was amused by this ridiculous notion of mine. I was concerned for you, fighting a man much bigger than yourself. All the while, you effortlessly took him down, disabled him before I could say "watch out!" and without a single scratch. My dear Doctor Watson, you never cease to amaze me!'

John heard this unexpected praise with pride, and this made him relax and smile. Sherlock praising him? He really must've hit his head! 'Well, somebody has to watch your back, you sod!' he answered, smiling. 'Stay down, Sherlock. That was a nasty bump. I'll call Lestrade and an ambulance. The cut doesn't seem to be too deep, but we'd better keep pressure to stop the bleeding.'

...

Dr. Mckenzie was impressed with the shorter version of the events John had given her. John took notice of her stitching and thought her work was very neat. He was reminded of a nurse at his surgery who said female doctors were much more careful when stitching because they concerned themselves with the scar they'd leave afterwards. He had thought it was a bit of a sexist comment at the time - after all, he too was very good at it. And, having done it under extreme conditions, he was able to control the needle and the knotting with either hand and at great speed. But now he noticed how much smaller and even hers were. Plus, she placed her first stitch right in the middle, then a second and a third dividing the cut into quarters, to ensure the symmetry and uniformity of their spacing.

'Dr. Mckenzie, your stitching is quite amazing!'

'Oh, you should see them from the back!' she replied, keeping her eyes on her work.

It took him a second, but then he understood and chuckled amused.

Sherlock had rolled his eyes at John's comment. Really? Is he trying to chat mydoctor up as she's stitching me? He was affronted at such levity, but his reactions went unnoticed as he lay on his back.

The x-rays came back showing no fractures. As Sherlock refused to spend the night at the hospital for observation, John resigned himself to keep a watch for the next twenty four hours. He didn't think he could stay awake, but reasoned he could set his alarm to check on Sherlock every couple of hours and try to sleep in between.

...

Sherlock was relieved to go home and relieved that John didn't try to get a date out of his emergency room visit. He was cross. He hated hospitals and had only gone because John had refused to take him home. A big waste of time, seeing that he didn't have a fracture on his skull after all and all he got were stitches - something that John could have easily done at home. He felt them tug at every bump on the road and he had a headache. Plus it annoyed him that John could never be around a woman without acting like an animal sniffing a female in heat. But as they rode home, John started asking him questions about the finished case, being, as usual, impressed with Sherlock's keen observations that had led them to the murderer. By the time they arrived at 221B he was feeling better, the exhilaration of a case solved finally coming over him, John's admiration lifting his spirits.

Sherlock didn't think John needed to watch him, he didn't feel any dizziness or nausea, and his speech was normal, not slurred. But despite his tiredness and lack of sleep, John insisted on watching over him. He wanted to move his chair into his flatmate's bedroom, but Sherlock assured him he'd be fine sleeping on the sofa. No need to drag furniture around and upset the sitting room. Somehow disturbing the order of both rooms bothered him. And the idea of John sitting with him in his bedroom made him uncomfortable, for some reason.

John tried to make him eat something (Sherlock managed to consume about two thirds of a can of soup), gave him some painkillers, made some coffee, took a shower to wake himself up, set the alarm on his phone, and got ready for his vigil. Soon enough, he was asleep on the chair.

Sherlock, despite his injuries, was still too excited about having solved the case and was in no mood for sleep. He tried to get moderately clean without a full shower, in order to keep the stitches dry. Then got into his pyjamas and gown and settled on the sofa. He felt a bit of pain now that the anaesthetic shot was wearing off. But he could choose to ignore it; he wanted to file the case in his mind palace anyway. That's when he remembered John's fight. He himself was a very good fighter, but today he hadn't been fast enough. Then he marveled at John's skills. He only wished he hadn't been so groggy at that moment, just so he could have truly appreciated it. Really, I could be dead by now if it weren't for him. And he shielded me from the murderer.

At moments like these, when the soldier in John surfaced, it was quite a sight to see. His face would transform itself into a stony mask. There was fierceness in his eyes, so focused and in control, almost cold. He projected a power that hinted at how dangerous he could be. Nothing that indicated the existence of an affable doctor in homely jumpers. Those rare moments were a treat, just as thrilling and intriguing to Sherlock as the cases themselves.

He looked over at John sleeping on the chair and smiled. He has lost weight ever since he moved in. He guessed irregular eating habits and physically chasing and fighting criminals had a lot to do with it. But a couple of months ago John had started jogging and then, established an exercise routine to do at any chance he had, 'to keep myself in good shape for all the running around we do' and it showed. He had been sincere in saying that John never ceased to amaze him. He was proud of him. He looked at John again, dragged himself up, cringing at the tugging of the stitches. Then he went over to the side table next to his friend's chair, picked up the phone and turned it off. He knew he wouldn't sleep anyway. No need for John to be awake.

He gingerly settled back on the sofa and retreated into his mind. That would also take his mind off his injuries. He went to the paneled room number 5. So much to file today!

On the ground floor, instead of going straight ahead towards the stainless steel lift, he took the passage to the left that opened into a spacious hallway. In that elegant room, there was a large sweeping old-fashioned wood staircase with a carpeted runner, that split into two halfway up, framing a large window with stained glass. He took the steps to the left and went straight to room number 5.

He also liked this room. It had wood panels on the walls, not dark, but in a warm colour. In this room, there were a brown leather winged chair, a chaise, a fireplace, a Persian rug, a comfy cushioned bench under the large window, recessed between the bookcases. There were also guns displayed on the walls, a couple of military uniforms on display cases (camouflage and dress). This room had no curtains, and there was always a shaft of sunlight coming through the window and shinning onto the rug and floors, making the room cozy and warm. The window showed a view to the gardens. He pulled a couple of folders out and sat on the chaise.

This was John's room. Usually he filed all the people in his life (the ones in his personal life, not necessarily related to cases) in one single large room, number 15 on the right wing, the one that looked more like a library, with a separate small desk under each bookcase. But once John's folders started to overflow and spill out its allotted frame, Sherlock had to create another room in the left wing just for his files. That in itself had been a surprise, he stopped, remembering. But there was something about John that was so fascinating. His file kept expanding quite rapidly. He attributed that to the fact that not only they were flatmates, but partners in the cases. It was bound to happen once you spent so much time with one person, he reasoned.

He held a folder labeled Skills and another for Miscellaneous.