Good Company

Sherlock and John were ushered down stairwells and corridors until they ended up in an underground garage with one of Mycroft's fleet cars waiting for them.

John climbed in first and Sherlock followed close behind, telling the driver to drop them at Regent's Park instead of Baker Street.

"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock asked as he grabbed a bottle of water that he knew his brother kept in his cars and handed it to his friend.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm good, Sherlock. Thanks. It's just… those bloody camera flashes and the sun and it got warmer and warmer and Carlyle was there so I was back in the military mindset….", he trailed off and unscrewed the cap on the bottle.

"I'm alright now, though."

John took a sip of the water and relished it.

"You know, I do believe those drops you gave me actually helped. I'm much calmer now than usual and I know I was hallucinating and by God it wasn't the first time, but it wasn't bad as such. We were under attack and then I thought I had to treat a gunshot wound. That was actually pretty routine for me, so maybe that's why I'm so calm now."

He took another sip of the water before closing the bottle again.

"It was a flashback to the war, yes, but that's all it was, I think. No torture, no pain for me. No nothing, really, except the normal adrenaline rush. But thank you, for getting me out of my own head."

"That's alright, John. I knew you weren't in pain, I just had to make you believe it so you wouldn't perceive it all as an attack. Had to get close enough for you to smell the scarf."

"Yeah. That was clever. You knew I'd associate that particular smell with 221b. It actually smells like you and the flat," John said as he looked over at Sherlock, mulling his words over.

"You didn't put it close to any unsanitary experiments lately, did you? I didn't just inhale a home-made version of Y. Pestis1 that you've been cooking up or anything like that, right?"

Sherlock looked offended.

"Do you really think I'd put my scarf around my own neck if I had exposed it to bubonic plague?"

John looked caught.

"Well… not on purpose, probably. Unless you wanted to study it first-hand…" he said but grinned.

It took Sherlock a second to realize that it was a joke, but then he grinned as well.

The driver dropped them off on the far side of Regent's Park. Sherlock decided that the fresh air would do John good and the doctor had to agree.

Out in the park, the sun was still warm on his face, but he had a constant cool breeze around him and the sounds of London traffic and the occasional burglar alarm to ground him.

The two friends took their time, taking the long way round the boating lake back to Baker Street. The entire way, Sherlock kept watching John and John was aware he was being studied again. But he was grateful that Sherlock had provided him with an opportunity that he could leave the press conference with his reputation still in tact.

John felt himself relax more and more the longer they walked, light-hearted banter and bickering being thrown back and forth between them.

After several pensioners had stopped and stared at John's suit jacket, the doctor decided to take it off and fold it over his arm so his medals were hidden. The last thing he needed right now was to be approached by former servicemen.

Sherlock had to admit that John didn't look as shaken as he had done in the past. The hallucination seemed to really had been a flashback to a pretty routine occurrence for John, rather than one that caused his usual responses.

John was calm, collected and confident, apart from his aversion to talk about his military service, which Sherlock could understand.

The two men got themselves coffees from one of the stalls near the Baker Street end of the boating lake and sat on the grass for a while, neither having anything else on at the moment.

While John enjoyed the coffee and the London sunshine and the feel of fresh grass underneath him, Sherlock sat with his back leaning against a willow tree, letting his fingers fly over the keyboard of his phone as he texted.

When they got back to Baker Street, a black car was parked out front. They both knew what it meant, and as soon as they entered they could hear Mrs. Hudson fussing over making tea.

"It's no trouble, Mrs. Hudson, my brother should be back shortly," they heard Mycroft say as they ascended the stairs.

"Please, do make yourself at home, brother," Sherlock said derisively as he strode into the living room.

"Mycroft," John greeted and nodded, acutely aware that he'd basically fled a press conference that had been about him.

"John, I trust you are feeling better? I was not aware that your episodes could be triggered like this, nor did I think that they would take that particular form," Mycroft said and looked John over.

"Well, it wasn't fun. And it's been a while since I had a response like that. To be fair, even I didn't think that the London sunshine could trigger anything at all, but there you go," John replied as he took a seat in his armchair.

Mrs. Hudson busied herself in the kitchen making tea and shooing Sherlock out of her way. The detective joined his brother and John in the living room, knowing better than to get in Mrs. Hudson's way in the kitchen.

"Congratulations again, John. Well deserved," Mycroft said.

"Thanks, Mycroft."

"I'm sure you're aware that your sudden departure earlier caused quite a stir. However, we have explained the situation thusly: you attended the press conference even though the surgery had you on call for today. The text Sherlock sent you was in fact from the clinic asking you for immediate back up. We reiterated that you are a working GP and that your duty comes first, which is why you left so abruptly. I know for a fact that there weren't any reporters or photographers in the corridor and the doors were closed the entire time, so believe me when I say your exit was secret."

"Good… that's… good. Ta," John replied.

That scenario actually made sense, so he was happy to go with it.

The three men shared their tea in silence, before Mycroft rose to his feet and buttoned up his suit jacket again.

He left the flat on Baker Street with another twirl of his umbrella and only then did John finally relax.

Sherlock noticed with a frown that John had not yet voiced any desires to have dinner, which was something that concerned him. John always wanted to eat, but he had made no attempts of getting up and cooking something.

The detective let John watch television for three hours, knowing that John just needed something else to concentrate on for a while. Sherlock had recorded a few episodes of Time Team throughout the month and they now sat in their respective armchairs, studying the archaeology and geography of various places throughout Britain.

Sherlock would never admit it out loud, but the historical facts that the show uncovered sometimes proved useful to him and a few of his experiments on clay had stemmed from the programme.

It had gone 9pm when Sherlock couldn't stand it any longer. He threw his phone at John.

"Dinner. Call somewhere."

John was startled when the phone landed in his lap and looked up at his friend.

"Uhm... right. Any preferences?"

"Not for me. Dinner for you. Your borborygmi is interfering with my thought process," Sherlock said, as if that statement was enough of an explanation.

"I'm sorry? My what?"

Sherlock let out a theatrical sigh.

"Honestly John. Your stomach is rumbling so loudly I can't hear my own thoughts. Order something or make something, I don't care which, but do eat and be quiet."

John blushed slightly. He could feel his stomach rumbling now that Sherlock had drawn attention to it but had honestly not felt hungry before.

He picked up the phone and ordered his favourite chicken tikka masala and naan bread. To celebrate his Military Cross, he decided to get seconds, so he could have some for lunch the next day as well. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the thought that ordering seconds of a takeaway meal was what John considered a celebratory splurge.

The food arrived half an hour later, and Sherlock was glad to see that John actually was hungry, judging by how fast he devoured his meal.

They sat together for another hour talking about this and that and Sherlock correcting every answer on QI, before John called it a night.

Sherlock got changed and settled in on the couch. Despite the day John had had, the soldier did not suffer from another nightmare or anxiety attack.

Sherlock made a mental note to refill the rescue drops soon and retreated into his Mind Palace in the knowledge that John was slowly but surely coming to terms with everything that had happened to him.

On Wednesday morning, John got an early call from a clinic he was as of yet unfamiliar with. But the small family surgery needed a doctor and it was relatively close by, so he agreed to take the shift.

If he was honest with himself, he just wanted to feel useful in London, put his medical skills to good use and not think about war and gunfire for a while.

The staff at the surgery greeted him eagerly when he arrived. Their whole waiting room was full of people by 8am and they were not only one but two doctors down. One had taken a pre-approved holiday, the other had caught a stomach bug off one of his patients.

The hectic clinic actually helped John, who was used to work on tight schedules. This suited him just fine and he got right into it. A sprained ankle, a slipped disc and a few hay fever patients later, he grabbed a quick coffee from the reception area.

"Need a breather? I can hold the next one off five more minutes," the petite, blonde receptionist smiled at him warmly.

"If you could, just long enough for me to finish my first cuppa, that'd be great," he smirked back.

They chatted for a minute and he was instantly smitten with her infectious, easy laugh. She was bubbly and had a warm personality and they instantly seemed to get on.

Throughout the day, he met the other staff at the surgery and helped with a consultation when a second opinion was needed.

When he came home, he found a copy of Heather's paper on the coffee table, opened by Mrs. Hudson no doubt, to the exclusive article about him.

The main picture immediately caught his eye. It wasn't the one of him posing by the window as he had expected. In fact, he didn't remember this picture being taken at all.

It was a picture of him and Sherlock, standing by the fireplace surrounded by the skull and insect specimen boxes. Sherlock was holding his violin and smirking at John, while John stood there, one hand on his hip pushing his suit jacket open while the other hand was on Sherlock's arm. John was laughing whole-heartedly and unashamedly in the picture and he remembered actually having to grab hold of Sherlock's arm to keep his balance. Somehow, the photographer had managed to capture that unguarded moment between two best friends, sharing a laugh in their home.

There were other pictures, of John sitting on the couch looking serious, another one with Sherlock and one of John in combat uniform, as expected.

John put the paper away with the intention of cutting out the picture of him and Sherlock laughing together, getting it framed and giving it to long-suffering Mrs. Hudson.

On Thursday, the surgery called John to fill in again, much to Sherlock's delight. That meant that John could think about something else and he himself had free reign of the kitchen table. It also meant he could get on with a few things he had planned for a while now.

Only twenty minutes after John had left for his shift, Sherlock exited Baker Street with his violin case in hand and hailed a cab.

As it was, both Sherlock and John returned to the flat at roughly the same time. John had just put the kettle on when Sherlock strode into the kitchen.

"Have you been on a case?" John asked.

"No. No case. London's criminals are proving to be rather dim-witted this month. I need to talk to Lestrade so he'll find smarter criminals next time," Sherlock sighed, upset that his powers of deduction had not been put to use for yet another day.

"Have you spoken to Lestrade? Are there no cold cases for you to solve?" the doctor enquired as he put a cup of Yorkshire tea down in front of the detective.

"He may not be speaking to me right now," Sherlock confessed quietly.

John rolled his eyes.

"What did you do to upset him this time?" he asked, slightly exasperated.

"Nothing! I didn't do anything that could be construed as Not Good. He just took offence at the bag of fresh spleens I got from Molly," Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"You took bloody spleens to New Scotland Yard?" John asked, having to make sure he heard right.

"It was all sanitary and everything was labelled. It's not my fault their new forensics trainee logged my bag as evidence…" the detective became more and more petulant.

John had to suppress a groan.

"Right. Call Lestrade, say sorry and ask him for a case."

"He's the one who should apologise! His trained monkeys completely destroyed my perfectly safe samples!"

John decided to stop arguing. They'd been in this situation too many times for him to hope for a different outcome.

Thirty minutes later the door bell rang and Sherlock groaned as he heard the footsteps ascending their stairs.

"Mycroft, what do you want now?" he asked without turning towards the door through which his brother had just entered.

"And good evening to you, little brother. Good evening, John. Would you have a minute? There are just a few things I would like to discuss with you prior to your Victoria Cross investiture," Mycroft said and fixed John with an intense stare.

"Evening, Mycroft. Do come in and don't mind your brother, he's in one of his moods because his spleens got taken off him by Scotland Yard," John said and invited Mycroft in.

At the mention of body parts, Mycroft bristled a bit, but caught himself again quickly.

"I see not much has changed in that regard, then," the government official commented.

"I swear he's like a cat sometimes. Always dragging in dead things and leaving them on the kitchen table or under the couch for me to find. And then he expects someone to praise him for having been so clever that got the dead parts in the first place," John chuckled.

"Yes", Mycroft agreed.

"His nannies despaired. I think he went through five different nannies when he was nine years old, he'd just leave more and more disgusting things lying around his room to see how far he could push them before they'd have a fit."

"I am sitting right here and I can, in fact, hear you, you know?" Sherlock commented from his place at the kitchen table.

He had to smirk, though. John wasn't the first to comment he acted like a feline and he did enjoy praise. Not for finding body parts, any idiot could do that and get some from the morgue at Bart's, but for his successful experiments he conducted with them.

John rolled his eyes at his flatmate.

"Anyway, Mycroft, I gather you came over for a reason?" he prompted as both men sat down in the armchairs in the lounge.

"Ah, yes. There are certain protocols in place at Buckingham Palace that you will need to be aware of for your Victoria Cross Investiture. I trust my brother has not informed you yet."

"Sherlock knows the Palace protocol? How?"

"As I thought. How he knows it does not matter at this point, all that matters is that he does, in fact, know it."

Mycroft emphasized the last part of that sentence and glared at Sherlock, the look saying 'behave yourself at the Palace or else.'

"Well, John, as you will be meeting Her Majesty the Queen, you need to know how to address her correctly. In her presence, you should call her Your Majesty or Ma'am. Should you use the latter, please be aware that it is pronounced 'mum' and not 'mam.'"

John nodded to show he understood. He was actually aware of this due to his time in the army, but he let Mycroft explain it anyway.

Mycroft told him how he should conduct himself, what the correct address was for the main people involved in the investiture and even included table manners. John gave a short snort, insisting that he was not the one who needed a lesson in table manners, but Mycroft looked at him and he quieted down.

"While at table, don't bend forward towards your food. Keep your back straight and bring the food to your mouth, preferably without looking down2," the older Holmes brother explained.

"Don't worry about that though. It took Mycroft years to get it right," Sherlock chimed in.

"Anyway," Mycroft quickly tried to change the subject.

"During your actual investiture, the way you approach Her Majesty is just like you did on Tuesday. The Lord Chamberlain will give a short introduction and explain which medal you are being awarded and why. The Queen will then call you forward and you will approach slowly. She will congratulate you and shake your hand, then she will present you with the Victoria Cross. You will accept it with a smile, snap your heels and salute."

"Coming to the 'shun…" John muttered under his breath.

"Beg your pardon?" Mycroft asked.

"That last movement. When we snap our heels together and then move into the salute. It's called 'coming to the 'shun' in the army, or rather coming to attention," John clarified.

"Yes. Thank you. The Queen may or may not talk to you during the Investiture. If she does, always be courteous in your replies. Once you have received your award, you will leave with a quick turn…"

"… about face," John supplied, and he took delight in the fact that it annoyed Mycroft.

"The quick turn on your heels when you leave the presence of higher ranking officers. It's called 'about face'. Mycroft, I was in the army for nearly fifteen years. I know how to conduct myself in the presence of higher ranking officers. I received my Distinguished Service Order from Prince Charles3, as I'm sure it states somewhere in my records. I know this drill."

"Very well," Mycroft conceded and started explaining some of the minor rules and regulations at Buckingham Palace.

He left thirty minutes later, after stating that a car from the Palace would pick John, his sister, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson up at 2pm.

Mrs. Hudson came upstairs about an hour later.

"Oh hello my dears. John, there was a delivery for you earlier. I hope you don't mind but I put it in your room," she said and rested her hand on the back of his shoulder.

"No, not at all. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

John slowly walked up the stairs to his bedroom. He opened the door and saw… nothing. No box, no parcel, nothing out of the ordinary.

Frowning, he stepped over the threshold and checked his room with a three-hundred and sixty degree turn. At the back of his door, he found a garment bag hanging from the small hook.

He opened the bag and took in his uniform. It was immaculate. He pulled the bag down but left the actual garment on the coat hanger. Then he took his suit jacket down and carefully attached the medals in their right place on his uniform jacket, taking special care as he attached the clasp to his Military Cross.

John was lost in thought as he stroked his hand across his medals. He nearly jumped when his mobile rang.

"Watson!"

"Hey John."

"Oh, hey Greg. What's up?"

"Not much. I take it His Highness has told you about the lab incident?"

"He mentioned bits of it."

"Right. Anyway, I was wondering whether you'd fancy a pint. I was thinking of asking a few people out, the more the merrier," Lestrade said and John found himself agreeing.

"Uhm, about 45 minutes, the usual?"

"Sounds good, John! See you later! Oh, and tell that insufferable flatmate of yours he's welcome to come as long as he apologises to Susan."

"You and I both know that's not going to happen. The apology, that is," John sighed.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Anyway, see you in a few."

John returned downstairs to find that Sherlock hadn't really moved except to set up another two beakers on the kitchen table for one of his experiments.

"I'm sure Lestrade invited me along as well but I won't apologise. He should apologise to me. Until then, I will conduct my experiments and apply my deduction skills elsewhere," Sherlock said, before John could explain that Lestrade had just called.

"Well, suit yourself, Sherlock. I need a pint and I want to drink that pint with my friends. That includes you. When you decide that this childishness is beneath you, come find us at The Gunmaker. If not, I'll be back around ten."

John knew that this sort of blackmail didn't usually work on Sherlock but that didn't stop him from trying. He knew that Sherlock wasn't a people person, but the offer was there and genuine, and he'd hate to see Sherlock distance himself more than he should. Especially after how much the detective had helped him these past two weeks.

"Give my regards to Mike and Molly," Sherlock called after John as the soldier left the flat.

As soon as the front door snapped shut, Sherlock grinned. His plan was working well. John knew that he barely ever went to a pub, unless it was required for a case like that night at the Trainyard. So him declining the offer to join them would not raise suspicions.

He had actually arranged this pub outing himself. That is to say, he had spoken to Molly at Bart's when he picked his spleens up and suggested she could meet up with John as he seemed to need company, and maybe she could ask around whether anyone else fancied coming with them.

However, she was under strict instruction to treat John just like she had before the story about his unit broke, and to not mention his military service at all, if avoidable.

So Molly had asked Lestrade when he came by for the latest autopsy report and then she had asked Mike to come along for good measure.

The three of them were already at the pub when John walked in. He spotted Molly and Mike sitting at a table in the corner, and Lestrade standing at the bar ordering a round of lager.

Lestrade carried the three pint glasses over to the table, trying not to spill too much, and deposited them on the table with a clunk.

"Sorry, Molls, getting your red wine now, didn't have enough hands," Greg smirked.

"Give you a hand?" John asked and went back to the bar with Lestrade who ordered the wine and a few packets of crisps for the table.

Together, they made their way back over.

"Here you are, Molly. One glass of house red," Lestrade said as he put the glass down in front of her.

"Thanks, Greg."

"John, hope the usual is alright?"

"Yeah, cheers. I got crisps in, if anyone wants any."

John waved the crisps bags around and put them in the middle of the table, opening them so that everyone could reach.

"How are you, John? Haven't seen you around for a while," Molly enquired while she grabbed a crisp.

"I'm alright. Not too bad, all things considered. And you? I hear Sherlock managed to talk you into giving him samples again?" he grinned around his pint glass.

Molly blushed a bit.

"Well, you know…He was being nice and it's not like we were storing them for anything, they would have gone into the wastebin…"

John put his hand on hers and looked at her.

"Molly it's alright. He's a manipulative bastard at the best of times," he grinned.

"Hear, hear," Lestrade chimed in.

"So John, Greg here tells me you played the guitar the other day in public? How did that go?" Mike asked after he took a sip of his beer.

John shot Greg a glance.

"Pretty well, actually, if I say so myself. That was fun, haven't performed in ages!"

"Oh, what did you play?" Molly asked.

"Layla, by Eric Clapton. It was a toss-up really, between three songs, so I got Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock to decide because I just couldn't choose."

"He was really good. Wouldn't have believed it was him if I hadn't told him to demonstrate before we went in," Lestrade chimed in.

"John Watson! Have you been holding out on us?" Molly said with mock shock.

John just grinned.

"I'm sure that can be remedied, Molly. Mycroft actually let me keep the guitar, so who knows?" he said.

But then John remembered something.

"Sherlock can play jazz on the saxophone!" he blurted out, and Lestrade nearly spat out his drink.

"He what? Sherlock? Mister Classic knows jazz?" he tried to clarify.

"Yeah, shocker, right? I couldn't believe it when he told me! Apparently he plays the piano, too. I swear, is there anything he's not good at?" John took another sip of his beer.

For the next two hours, the four of them talked about various musical tastes and topics of mutual interests. John didn't even notice that his upcoming ceremony or the army weren't mentioned by any of his friends at all.

He just enjoyed spending the time with his friends and in good company.

1 Yersinia pestis, the bacteria that causes the plague

2 This is something Diana, Princess of Wales once commented on

3 High military honours are always presented by the Queen or other senior members of the Royal Family