Sherlock let John go through the inner turmoil of "What am I doing moving in with a complete stranger who has just pointed a gun at me?" And "Just because I've sat down doesn't mean that I've decided anything… Nope."
"So… Sherlock," John hesitated before he spoke again, "you're a detective then?"
"Yes." Sherlock decided to refrain from calling the man by his rank again… Unless he had to.
"How long have you worked at Scotland Yard?"
"I don't." Sherlock waited to see if the soldier would use his brains since he had shown the extent of his brawns twice now. Sherlock wouldn't admit it but the back of his leg did smart a little. "I work with them."
"Well I would say private detective…"
"But?"
"The police don't consult amateurs."
Amateur? Sherlock paused with the unintentional insult. Well then – showtime. "When you woke up in the hospital a few days ago I said I knew everything there is know about you just from looking at you."
"Yes, what did you mean by that?" Honestly, what else could I have meant by that?
"When I first saw you, I could read your military career in your haircut, the bags under your eyes and the way you leaned to one side. I could read your state of mind in your wallet and phone. As well as your sister's drinking habits."
"How did you know everything about me, other than what you saw in my wallet?"
"I saw you in that room before I saw any of your personal effects, Lestrade wanted me to see how low you had fallen before I started… deducing you." Sherlock grimaced at the use of Lestrade's words but he couldn't find another way to express it. "I saw from your haircut that you were in the military, no one gets a haircut like that otherwise," Sherlock didn't see that slight hurt look on John's face that was mixed with a questioning look to the detective's own mop, "and even with the poor light in that room your tan was obvious, it's only just too dark to be your skin tone."
"I could have been on holiday?"
Sherlock strained not to grunt at the attempt to stifle him. Why do people always do that? "Yes and on your return from your holiday, on which you had no need for valid cards in your wallet, you decided to try to kill yourself because if two weeks in Magaluf won't make you happy then you may as well end it now." Sherlock did grunt that time and John cleared his throat while he took in that explanation. Sherlock may as well have just turned and told John to piss off. "The way you were leaning suggested an injury that caused you a lot of pain but you expressed no signs of feeling pain, even in shock you would have rubbed at your leg or your eyes would have twitched even slightly but you didn't even blink so either you have a very high pain threshold, which is entirely possible given your vocation-"
"Past vocation."
"- but that coupled with the number for a psychiatrist in your wallet suggests a traumatic experience surrounding the injury some time before that day."
"Besides the war itself?"
"You're a soldier, of course the war will be traumatic but not something you would go to a therapist about. Not willingly. Especially when you consider how you've shut everyone out of your life and just want to be left alone. Alone to wallow in self-pity while everyone hails you a hero."
"I am not a hero!" John's hand shook and he looked at it. "I'm not…" He squeezed his fist in an attempt to steady it.
"I'm sure the family of the man's life you saved disagrees." Sherlock hesitated and looked up to John's face. "Molly disagrees." At this John's gaze shot back up to Sherlock and he stopped moving his hand.
"You spoke to Molly? Is she alright?"
"She's fine."
"She's not hurt after the fall?" John reached to pick up his cup of tea. With his left hand.
"She fell?" Sherlock had no knowledge of that. Wait, better take a second look… Nope.
"I was standing in front of a bus, how else do you think she saved me? Waved a carrot on the end of a stick?" He took a sip and breathed out a sigh of satisfaction. "What did she tell you?" Why, was there something that she didn't tell me?
"She told me about what you did for her and how you've been her hero." John looked away at the last word. "What is it you find so repulsive about that label?"
"Nothing."
"Come on, Captain," John told him to stop, "why don't you like it when people call you a hero? You saved that man's life, Captain," and again, "you're her hero, Captain."
John slammed his tea down, stood up and took a step towards Sherlock who was standing in the living room in front of John. "Why? Why do they label me a hero, because I saved that man's life or because I got shot doing it?" He took a breath and Sherlock wasn't sure if he actually wanted an answer to that. "Yes, that man is alive and he might not have been if I hadn't took that bullet. If I had died due to the injury I would have been hailed as having paid the ultimate price for comradery and for however many years he lived for he would have been telling his friends and family about the 'hero'that saved his life, the reason that his family were even born and the man whose face he saw every time he closed his eyes. And they would wonder about me and my family before they would thank god or whoever that I did what I did. And when they attended the ceremonies with their own real-life veteran they might even remember me; the man they never knew who is the reason that they were even born." He had started squeezing his fist the minute he had stood. Sherlock was watching and John followed his eye line before he took a step back and sat back down. He didn't bend his leg until he forced his foot backwards on the floor. Forcing movement so he has accepted that it's psychosomatic. That's good. "What they won't talk about and remember and thank god for is the stuff that no one talks about. The rest of it." He sighed and picked up his tea again. "Saving one life, however precious, does not absolve me of all of the other things I did."
Just then Mrs Hudson trotted up the stairs and John reached for his leg and rubbed it. Maybe not so good. Getting there though. "You can't possibly see in this light!" She walked around turning the lights on that Sherlock had turned off and picked up John's cane before leaning it on the kitchen table. John shuffled forward in his seat to look around the apartment for the first time. "Oh!" She stopped at John. "Don't worry, there's another bedroom up the stairs if you'll be needing two?" She turned to Sherlock who just turned away trying not to smirk.
"Well, of course we'll be needing two?" Ah. Moving in then… And a little sensitive about his sexuality.
"What about these suicides then, Sherlock?" She gestured to the paper on the small table beside the armchair and John picked it up to look at the headline. "I thought they'd be right up your street." She nudged John. "Sorry love." He just looked forward with a 'that just happened' look that Sherlock considered that might be one of his favourites. "Three exactly the same."
Sherlock looked out his window and saw the police car pull up. "Four. There's been a fourth."
"Four?" Mrs Hudson reacted to the noise of someone at the front door down the stairs and she tottered away to answer it.
"Four?" John put the paper back and looked at Sherlock.
"That's Lestrade at the door."
"So?"
Sherlock didn't answer and just waited for the Inspector to bound up the stairs. "Where?"
"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."
"What's different?"
"This one left a note." Sherlock moved his head in thought. Potential. "Will you come to the scene?"
"Who's on forensics?" Lestrade hesitated and Sherlock grunted. "Anderson won't work with me."
"He wouldn't be your assistant?"
"I need one!" Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away from the Inspector.
"Are you coming or not?"
"Not in a police car, I'll make my own way."
"Right." Lestrade turned his head to nod at John and Mrs Hudson before disappearing back down the stairs.
Sherlock turned and smiled to John. "What?"
"A case! Four suicides exactly the same, it's like Christmas." He burled around to pick up his coat but followed the burl through to stop facing John and Mrs Hudson again.
"Look at you all happy, it's not decent." She turned and walked back down the stairs.
"Oh, who cares about decent; there's finally something fun going on!"
"Well that's not inappropriate." John grabbed the paper again and rubbed his leg.
"Coming?"
John looked up at Sherlock. "Me?"
"No, Mrs Hudson. Of course you." Sherlock pulled his gloves on and smiled unconvincingly.
"Why?" John stood. Why? Oh come on…
"Well you're a doctor. In fact, you're an army doctor. So, I'm assuming you're good under pressure and used to violent deaths?"
John nodded and caught it in his throat. Whatever 'it' was it stuck. "Yes."
"Seen some trouble too, I'll bet?"
"Yes. Too much." John looked down before meeting Sherlock's eyes again.
"Want to see some more?"
"Oh god, yes." Thought so.
Sherlock smirked and turned on the spot. I wonder. He trotted down the stairs and opened the door. When they reached the pavement Sherlock put his hands out for a passing taxi and they clambered inside. Sherlock got in first so that when he sat he could look without attracting John's attention to it. No cane. Excellent. Amateur, indeed.