Author's Note: Sorry, I seem to have lost my Brit-picker…please let me know if you see any Americanisms that need to be adjusted.

"I could not deprive you of the revelation of all that you could accomplish together, of a friendship that will define you both in ways you cannot yet realize."
–Spock, speaking to his younger self in the film, Star Trek 2009

Synergy: the creation of a whole that is greater than the simple sum of its parts. The term synergy comes from the Attic Greek word συνεργία synergia[1] (confer Koine Greek: συνέργεια synergeia) from synergos, συνεργός, meaning "working together."

January 2013

John stood in front of his bunk folding his laundry: t-shirts, sweatshirts, track pants, underwear, socks, in neat, army-regulation piles the way he had been taught, just as he had done ever since his discharge. It was habit now, a rote action, and though anyone observing him would guess from his blank expression that he was utterly absorbed, the mundane task somehow comforted him while leaving his mind free.

Not always a good thing, though – a free mind. As John's arms and hands continued with the precise movements, his ears were attuned to what was happening in the next cell over: the sounds of drawers being pulled out and shut again, a mattress being lifted as the bunk was stripped, hangers sliding on a bar, papers being shuffled.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, there was a long silence. A weight seemed to settle in John's stomach as he heard Jorkins's quiet voice and Wiggy's subdued answer.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

There was a sound of footsteps on concrete, then Jorkins appeared in the open doorway of John's cell. John paused and looked up. The prison officer gave him a small nod. John nodded back.

Jorkins offered John a sort of smile that didn't reach his eyes, then said over his shoulder, "I'll be waiting for you at the head of the stairs, yeah?" and moved off.

John took a deep breath and raised his head to stare at the wall a moment, his lips in a thin line, a sweatshirt still in his hands. His chest felt tight.

There was a small knock on his doorframe. John turned his head slowly towards the door. Wiggins was standing in the doorway. He was wearing the faded blue jeans, battered trainers, t-shirt and tatty hoody he had been wearing the day he and John had arrived at Frankland. John noted the garments had been cleaned and pressed. Wiggins, too, looked clean and pressed, recently shaved, hair neatly cut, nails scrubbed and neatly trimmed. In one hand he held his "bang-up bag" – a decent-sized blue holdall with a black handle that looked well-packed. He was very pale.

John cleared his throat. "So. You're off then?" He tried to keep his voice light and casual.

Wiggins wet his lips. "Yeah." He swallowed hard. Looked down.

John nodded.

"I…I'll write–" Wiggy tried feebly, but John cut him off at once.

"No." Hearing the sharpness in his voice, he struggled to soften his tone. "No, don't. Forget this place. All of it. This is your chance. Leave it all behind."

When Wiggins didn't answer, the sharpness came back. "Do you hear me?" John demanded, voice rough.

After a beat, Wiggy looked up and flinched when he met John's blazing eyes. Pressing his lips tightly together and looking much younger than he actually was, he gave a small nod, swallowing hard. Then, when John made no move to invite him in or even fully face him, he abjectly backed into the corridor, hesitated, then disappeared from view as he headed towards the stairs.

John turned back to his bunk and grimly began folding the sweatshirt.

There was a sudden sound of running footsteps, rubber-soled trainers hitting the concrete. Startled, John dropped the shirt, but before he could turn or even look up Wiggins was there, throwing his strong, wiry arms around him and burying his face in John's shoulder, almost knocking the doctor off balance.

Surprised, John hesitated, then, impulsively, raised his own arms and hugged the boy back, hard. He tried to steady his own breathing as he felt a dampness seep through the fabric over his shoulder.

"Don't look back," he whispered fiercely in the younger man's ear. "Don't look back."

Wiggins' fingers tightened briefly on the back of his shirt. He took a deep, ragged breath, gave John a hard squeeze, whispered, "Thanks for everything, doc," and bolted out of the cell. John stood frozen, listening to the sound of Wiggy's trainers as they pelted along the corridor, then down the iron staircase.

He continued to stand and listen until even their echo died away entirely. Then, turning back to the bunk, he resumed folding his laundry.

"Good luck, Wiggy," John said softly.

Perhaps it was just a fancy, but his cell already felt a little colder and emptier.

July 2014

It was like old times. Staggering under the weight of an unseemly pile of heavy books detailing the characteristics, habits and habitat of chrysomelid beetles (specifically those of the genus Diamphidia), Molly had to resort to using her shoulder to shove open the door to the lab. True to form, Sherlock, seated on a bench and peering intently at a slide through a microscope, didn't jump up to help her or even so much as look up – rather irksome, since Molly was bringing the tomes at his request. Nettled, she dropped the books down on the worktable next to him with a heavy thunk.

"Careful," Sherlock snapped, still not looking up. Molly sighed in exasperation.

Using a pair of tweezers, Sherlock plucked the small metal broad-head from the bolt Lestrade had brought to Baker Street after the incident at the mill from a nearby Petri dish and dropped it into a test tube with a small amount of liquid at the bottom. The liquid immediately began to fizz.

"Slide," Sherlock said. Molly started and looked up at him, blinking. She had been watching the pipette with fascination and missed his request.

"Slide," Sherlock repeated impatiently. "Just there." He held his hand out. The fresh slide was blatantly within his reach, but Molly handed it to him anyway.

Sherlock drew some of the liquid from the tube with a dropper, transferred it to the surface of the slide and placed it under the microscope.

"This bolt – the bolt our intrepid assassin loosed at me in the mill – is different than the others," he muttered, adjusting the lens as he leaned forward again.

"How?" Molly asked curiously.

Sherlock looked up, blinking; Molly got the sense that he had already forgotten she was there. She thought he was about to admonish her for talking, but to her surprise he actually answered.

"The murder victims were shot with twenty-inch carbon bolts with fixed broad-heads from a compound crossbow with a mid-game draw weight," the detective replied in an intense rush. "The bolt that was fired at me came from a small-game recurve bow and had a sixteen-inch aluminum shaft with a removable broad-head. It could not have delivered a kill shot over the distance from which it was fired unless the aim was perfect. With both hunter and prey on the move, it was an impossible shot, which the assassin would had to have known beforehand."

Molly frowned. "Then why would he have bothered trying? He gave himself away by shooting at you, and almost got caught for nothing." (She focused hard on the problem so she wouldn't have to think of Sherlock as "prey.")

"Well-spotted, John," Sherlock said, a trace of pride and excitement in his voice. "That is indeed the question."

"Molly!"

"Hm?" Sherlock said absently, returning to the microscope. "Oh, yes – of course. Anyway, the less-than-lethal mechanics would suggest the introduction of another agent at work – I immediately suspected poison."

Molly gaped at him. "A poisoned arrow?" It sounded like something out of a fantasy story.

"A poisoned bolt – specifically, a bolt broad-head that had been poisoned," Sherlock corrected. "Given the assassin's predilection for using the feathers from an African helmeted guinea fowl as fletching, that gave me a starting point for identifying the agent used. Examination of the broad-head showed a powdered substance had been applied using plant sap as an adhesive; I have ascertained the plant sap to have been harvested from the roots of Devil's Claw, a ground-growing plant found in the Kalahari Desert (where the helmeted guinea fowl can also be found). The poison itself appears to have been derived from a plant belonging to the genus Boophone, what species I don't yet know but will soon – I suspect the species Boophone disticha, which is found in Sudan and South Africa and is a slow-acting poison commonly used by San hunters to bring down their prey…not an efficient way to achieve that end as it is said to take the animals four or five days to succumb to the effects of the poison, though it would be an effective way to cause a human enemy to suffer."

Molly stared. "Oh, God…that's…that's horrible." The thought that Sherlock had come so close to being pierced with such a weapon…

Not looking up from the scope, Sherlock somehow shrugged without giving the appearance of shrugging. "Effective," he said dismissively.

Molly studied him in silence. The buoyancy that had come over him while explaining about the poison seemed to have dissipated suddenly, leaving him as flat and lonely and burdened and forlorn-looking as…as…

As he had been That Day…the day he faced Jim on the roof of the hospital and wound up jumping.

And, just as she had felt emboldened to speak to him on a personal level then, she did again now.

"Sherlock," she asked suddenly, "where's John? I haven't seen him in ages."

She knew it was the right question when she saw his shoulders tense.

"I should think that would have been obvious, Molly," Sherlock replied curtly, still poring over the slide. "He's still recovering from having dislocated his shoulder three weeks ago."

"I ran into him at the coffee shop downstairs yesterday," Molly said gently. "He wasn't wearing the brace, he was going to work, and when I asked he said he was feeling much better."

Sherlock ground his teeth. "Better, not recovered."

"He asked me how you were," Molly pointed out. "You live in the same building–"

"Because, obviously, I've been here a great deal, working," Sherlock said sharply, enunciating the last word with a finality that caused Molly's courage to ebb at once. She really wasn't a confrontational person at heart (though she had a lot more personal courage than many suspected), and she could see Sherlock was not going to open up about whatever was going on between him and John.

But she couldn't stop herself from asking, "Are you okay?"

Sherlock's eyes shifted to the side, then he raised his head from the microscope and looked at her full on. A wave of déjà vu swept over her.

What do you need?

You.

"No," Sherlock said slowly. He turned his head away to stare down at the surface of the worktable. "No, I'm not okay."

And she found herself asking, "What do you need?"

"Molly?" He raised his eyes to hers, his expression intense.

She swallowed. "Yes?"

"Would you…"

He stopped, looked down, then slowly rose to face her.

"Would you like to…"

"... have dinner?" She finished hopefully, but Sherlock spoke at the same time.

"…come with me to West Sussex Friday next?"

Molly blinked. "I…what?"

"I need to take the 5:02 from London, Victoria, Friday," Sherlock continued, reaching for his coat. "I require the help of…" he paused, searching for the right term, then settled on, "an assistant."

Puzzled, Molly asked, "Is it for a case?"

He hesitated. "Sort of."

"But John–"

Sherlock's eyes shifted away. "Would not be…the right person for this particular venture."

Molly thought fast. I'm on the schedule for work, and what would Tom think? He's already jealous of Sherlock. I really should say 'no,' or at least ask if we could do it another day.

"Yes, I'll come," she heard herself say instead.

John was surprised when his phone rang while he was getting ready for work the next morning. He seldom received calls before 7am. Puzzled, he answered without first checking the incoming number.

"Hello?"

"John."

"James!" John exclaimed, delighted to hear Sholto's standard, deadpan greeting (never a "hello" or a "hi;" always simply a man's name, either his first or his last). "This is a pleasant surprise."

"How have you been getting on?"

"Well," John said truthfully. "I've been getting on well…and you?"

As John filled his former commander in on what had been going on with him over the past few months and questioned the man on the news from Yorkshire (which consisted primarily of home improvement projects and dutifully performing the physical therapy exercises John had prescribed), he wondered privately what the phone call was about. As pleased as he was to hear from his friend, he knew full well that James was not really one for idle chitchat, and had no great love for talking on the telephone regardless. Not wanting to make the man uncomfortable, John kept his end of the conversation light, giving no indication that such a call was anything out of the ordinary, and waited patiently, knowing Sholto would come to it in his own good time.

Eventually, he did.

"John," the retired major said after a short lull, his tone hesitant, "you told me that – once you were 'landed somewhere,' that is – that I was…"

He paused, and John finished for him. "That you were welcome to come stay with me whenever you like… yes, I…" He stopped suddenly, realizing what the man was asking.

"Really, James? That would be brilliant!" He grinned. "When will you come?"

"Thursday evening, if that's all right." Though less effusive, the smile in James's voice was apparent. "I hope that's not too short of notice?"

John thought fast. It was Monday; he would be able to take Thursday afternoon and Friday off, he was sure. "Not at all. How long will you stay? What's the occasion?"

"I'd like to stay through the week-end, if that's all right. As for the occasion…do you remember BM*?"

John blanked for a moment, then it came to him and he began to laugh. "Oh, God…do I! God, how he hated that nickname!"

"Yes, well, who can blame him?" Sholto replied. "He's being awarded the Military Cross at Buckingham Palace on Friday afternoon; he asked me to attend and was rather hoping you'd come along with me."

"He certainly deserves it, and I would love to," John said warmly. "BM" or "Bomb Magnet" was so named because he had been caught in more bombing attacks in Helmand province than anyone in the regiment had ever heard of. The last one had not been so lucky for him – his leg had been so badly mangled that John had been forced to amputate it below the knee. Before he had lost consciousness, however, BM had arranged for the troops to be removed from the vicinity by helicopter, thus avoiding additional casualties.

John worked out the details with Sholto and then rang off. He checked his watch; he still had time for tea before leaving for work. He set his phone down and stood, carefully stretching his left arm and shoulder as he made his way to the kettle.

He had had to keep his shoulder immobilized for three full weeks following the incident at the mill. Physical therapy and range-of-motion exercises would continue throughout the summer, but John was feeling markedly better and counted himself lucky when he was finally able to dispense with the sling towards the end of the second week of June.

It had been a very dull, often irritating month. With his dominant arm bound up, the doctor had been unable to work on any of his projects around the flat. He had returned to work after only three days off, where he found he had to rely on the nurses for assistance with some ordinary examinations, refer more complicated in-office procedures to one of the other physicians, spend ridiculous amounts of time typing up his reports one-handed (with his non-dominant hand, no less), and endure endless questions from curious patients about how he had injured his arm (he made up a story about falling off a ladder, figuring none of them would believe the truth; he was such a poor liar, however, that, unbeknownst to him, more than half his patients assumed it was something far more embarrassing and one even suspected an injury resulting from some sort of bizarre, autoerotic activity).

What bothered John most, however, was the strange and sudden shift in his slowly mending relationship with Sherlock. He had – to his own surprise – seen very little of the consulting detective during the weeks subsequent to the events at the Docklands.

John's feelings about Sherlock were terribly mixed. More than Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, more than Harry or Mike, more than a desire to be a doctor again, more even than London itself, it had been Sherlock who had drawn John back from his self-imposed exile to Yorkshire.

When he looked back on the evening he had begun by looking at a flat with Sherlock Holmes and ended by killing a man to save Sherlock's life, John thought he could point to the exact moment when he realized he had come "home:" it was when, upon entering 221 behind Sherlock after chasing a cab through a maze of city streets and rooftops, he had unconsciously removed his coat and, casually and unthinkingly, hung it on a hook in the hallway for the first time while Sherlock flung his own over the end of the banister.

The degree of comfort, that feeling of being at home – finally – was something he had given up looking for and had certainly never expected to find when he had agreed to meet the strange man in Bart's lab the next evening at seven o'clock in Baker Street. John had gone because his curiosity had been piqued, because he had felt enough of an interest in the stranger to draw him, for the first time in months, out of the well of depression in which he had been living. He had been intrigued by Sherlock the more he saw of and learned about him, but he had not thought he had found a new flat, let alone a best mate and a new purpose. But when he had run behind Sherlock on that mad, unnerving, exhilarating chase after the cab, something in the universe had seemed to shift – he had almost heard the click – and he had somehow sensed the rightness of his place behind the detective. It was a feeling he had never experienced before, not in medical school, not in the Army – a feeling of this is where I'm supposed to be, this is what I'm supposed to be doing, and this is who I'm supposed to be doing it with. And later, when Lestrade had declared his fervent hope/belief that Sherlock Holmes, a great man, might someday be a good one as well, it had felt like a commission.

Most were perplexed by it, a few sensed it, but none fully understood the bond between them. John didn't fully understand it himself – he and Sherlock were as different as day and night, as chalk and cheese, as high desert and low rain forest – but he trusted whatever the connection between them was, even when he didn't always trust Sherlock himself. That was why he was able to accept and forgive what Sherlock had done to him at Baskerville (even though it had shaken him).

But when Sherlock had left him behind – had faked his own death and later told John that it was because he hadn't trusted in him to keep his secret – it had done more than shake John. It had thrown him into a crisis of faith.

How could he have got it so colossally wrong?

While he was in Yorkshire with Sholto, John had thought about it a great deal. Had he just been so eager to find a purpose that he had latched onto this brilliant man and imagined something between them that did not exist? He had needed Sherlock. But Sherlock, apparently – despite what John once believed – had not needed him.

It was a sobering thought – no, more – it was excruciating. Mycroft had been right – John did not trust easily. He had admired other people besides Sherlock, of course, and that and his own razor-sharp instincts were all that allowed him to hold onto the barest thread of hope that he hadn't been a mere sidekick all along – a glorified personal assistant to an eccentric, egomaniacal genius, unique only in his ability to put up with said genius. John never kidded himself that he measured up to Sherlock's brilliance, but he had believed there had been an instant connection, a reaction when they met that had raised them both to something greater when they were together than when they were alone. The fall and the events that followed it had shaken that belief, badly.

Being betrayed, let down and disappointed by the people he cared about the most was nothing new to John. His trust was not gained easily, and once lost, he never extended it again. When he had fled London last November he had not been sure he would return, and he certainly never expected to re-form a connection with Sherlock. But time, distance and healing had given him new perspective and, though he knew it wouldn't be easy, he finally decided that the extraordinary, defining friendship he had once believed in was worth taking another look at, even at the risk of further pain. And so he had returned "home," while at the same time approaching Sherlock with extreme caution – obtaining a job, moving into 221c, keeping his distance even as he wanted to reach out, by forging a life apart from the detective. He had been unable to help himself, even when he knew Sherlock was bewildered by his reserve.

But after the mill…things had felt different to John. After a few false starts he and Sherlock had fallen back into step as though they had never been parted. It had felt extraordinary, and John didn't regret a moment of it – not even the danger. For the first time he began to feel that things might actually get back to normal for them – or at least, to whatever "normal" for him and Sherlock was.

John apparently was the only one who felt that way. In the days following their Docklands adventure, Sherlock had become distant. John had a distinct impression the detective was actively trying to avoid him; he had begun skipping Sunday dinners with Mrs. Hudson in 221a, and when he and John chanced to pass in the hall, he would shift his eyes from the doctor's in a way that almost seemed…guilty…and find an excuse to hurry away.

Why would he be guilty? John wondered now as he finished his tea. Then he answered himself. He wouldn't. You're ascribing feelings to him he doesn't possess. The truth is that he's probably just busy, and he's cutting you out as he always has when he hasn't needed you to hand him his phone or help him with research or act as his muscle. The sooner you accept that, the better.

Sighing, John washed his empty tea mug and prepared to leave for work.

"So that's him," Sherlock said, a faint note of disapproval in his tone. "Major Sholto."

"Mm," Mrs. Hudson replied. "Seems a nice young man.

Ostensibly drying while Mrs. Hudson did the washing up, Sherlock narrowed his eyes from behind the curtain over the landlady's kitchen window at the two men as they descended the front steps and began looking round for a cab.

It was Thursday evening. Sholto had arrived earlier in the day; he and John had spent the afternoon catching up in 221c and were now on their way to dinner. John had brought Sholto to 221a to introduce the major to Mrs. Hudson and invite her to accompany them (Sherlock, to the landlady's disapproval when she had learned of it, had managed to give the impression that he was not at home), but she deferred on the grounds that "you boys need to catch up" (it had made the normally impassive major smile ever so slightly to hear himself referred to as a "boy").

Once they had returned to 221c, Sherlock hung about in 221a, getting under Mrs. Hudson's feet and finally caving to her insistence that he have tea with her, trying not to listen to John's occasional shout of laughter from downstairs as he and his old commander reminisced.

"If they're such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?" he said now as he watched the two men walk off, apparently having given up the attempt at a cab (really, a good coat and an imperious hand-wave is the best way to go about it, Sherlock thought).

Mrs. Hudson looked surprised. "He mentions him all the time to me. He never shuts up about him!" She laughed affectionately. "Hand me that cup, love, will you? There, just to your right."

"About him?" the detective demanded as he dutifully complied.

"Mm-hmm." Mrs. Hudson frowned as she examined a chip in the cup's handle. "Oh, dear. Sherlock, you don't treat precious things carefully enough sometimes!"

"Yes, but it's definitely him that he talks about?" Sherlock said impatiently, passing her the matching saucer.

Mrs. Hudson gave a small, hopeless sigh as she took it from him. "Mm-hmm."

Sherlock sniffed. "I've never even heard him say his name."

"Well, the poor man's almost a recluse – you know, since–"

"Yes," Sherlock broke in shortly.

"I never expected to meet him," Mrs. Hudson went on, setting the last of the clean dishes in the rack and stretching the tea towel over the back of a chair. "John says he's the most unsociable man he's ever met."

"He is?" Sherlock was outraged. "He's the most unsociable?"

"Yes. I wouldn't go so far as to say unsociable, though…a bit reserved, certainly…"

"Ah, that's why he's bouncing round him like a puppy." He meant to sound derisive, but it came out sounding bitter.

Mrs. Hudson glanced up at him sharply. Sherlock, realizing she could see through him, glanced away sullenly as her gaze softened and she offered him a sad, sympathetic smile, affecting to look out the window once more.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said gently, laying a gnarled hand whose touch could not be made ungentle even by the severest bout of arthritis, "you needn't be jealous. John loves you, you know."

Sherlock was startled. "We're not–"

Mrs. Hudson sighed in exasperation. "I didn't say you were."

They were silent a moment; then, Mrs. Hudson suggested, "You know, you could go with them tomorrow. It would mean a lot to John, I think."

Sherlock didn't look at her. "I wasn't invited. And even if I were, military ceremonies interest me not at all. Besides…I have a…a case that needs my attention."

"Sherlock–"

"I really do have a case," he insisted, and swept out of 221a without another word.

It was still dark when the train left King's Cross. Sherlock got them a compartment to themselves; any would-be commuters that stuck their heads in took one look at the tall, pale, brooding figure with the forbidding expression and hurriedly backed out again with a muttered apology, not daring to ask if the seats next to him or Molly were taken. This suited Sherlock down to the ground. He sat leaning his head against the window, curls mashed between the glass and the side of his face, eyes blank.

Molly wondered for the hundredth time what exactly she was doing here. Far from filling her in on his plans, Sherlock barely seemed to notice she was there. She attempted to speak to him only once, asking if he would like her to have a look at the folder he held loosely in his pale hands that had been handed to him at the station by the woman she recognized as the assistant to Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock had replied "No" rather rudely and gone back to staring unseeingly through the window. Molly had left him alone after that.

She wished she had brought along a book to read.

Three fraught hours later they descended from the train into a picturesque market town overlooked by a restored medieval castle. It was a lovely day, and Molly instantly was charmed by the stunning surrounding landscape, the quaint shops, and the majestic castle brooding over it all. Sherlock didn't seem to take note of any of it, striding through the small station to the nearest taxi rank as though on autopilot. Molly hurried after him; it seemed as though he had forgotten she was there, and she feared he would leave without her if she did not keep up. She slid into the back of a taxi beside him just as he was giving the driver directions to an intersection in the heart of the town.

Molly finally broke her silence as the taxi pulled out of the station car park.

"Sherlock," she began, hesitant but firm all at once, "why am I here? Truly?"

He was silent for so long that she thought at first he wasn't going to answer; then, with his face turned to the window, he replied, "You are here, Molly, to help me obtain information from a potentially reluctant witness."

This only raised about a hundred more questions, but in the end Molly settled on, "And does this…witness…know we're coming?"

It was unnerving, the way he refused to look at her. "No."

"How did you know where to come, then, and when?" Molly wondered.

She saw how, in the faint reflection of his face in the window glass, his eyes narrowed and his lip curled.

"Because," he spat, "my dear brother provided me with the necessary information."

Troubled by his uncharacteristic lack of verbosity, she said no more.

The cab let them out at the corner of a narrow but busy street lined with cars, trees and small, brick shops. Sherlock threw some notes at the driver and sprang out. Not waiting for Molly or holding the door for her, he strode off down the pavement as though he knew exactly where she was going, though she was reasonably sure he had never been here before. Seizing her purse, she scrambled after him.

He was moving so quickly, coattails flying out behind him, that Molly almost had to trot to keep up. When he turned abruptly to enter a small, dusty-looking chemist's, she almost stepped on his heels.

At first Molly thought Sherlock had made a mistake – it was a common little chemist's, nothing more, stocked with over-the-counter medicines along the walls and currently occupied by two or three harried-looking mums of bored-looking, snotty children fidgeting in their chairs as their mums waited to collect prescriptions that would, presumably, cure their snottiness. Sherlock, looking tall and imposing and utterly out of place, spared them one disdainful look as they all gaped at him in astonishment, then stood back near the wall to wait as they took their turn with the chemist's assistant.

Bewildered, Molly managed to get out one word – "But–" before Sherlock glared her into silence. Hastily she looked away from him and watched the young man behind the chemist's counter as he passed out medicines to each mum and lollies to each child in turn, earning grateful smiles all around. Molly noticed he had a rather thick, East London accent, but was careful in his diction.

When the bell had rung behind the last customer, Sherlock, without a word to Molly, pushed himself off the wall and stepped up to the counter, the folder Mycroft's assistant had given him tucked under his arm, hands deep in the pockets of his Belstaff coat.

"Can I help you?" Said the young man behind the chemist's counter, his eyes fastened on the computer screen before him as he swiftly typed up some notes. He was tall and thin – as tall and thin as Sherlock himself. He had a rather long, angular face that was clean-shaven, clear, lively, light blue eyes, and pale ginger hair that was neatly cropped and combed.

"Yes, I rather think you can…Wiggy," Sherlock drawled.

Startled, the young man looked up, saw Sherlock, and froze, his expression turning shocked and guarded all at once.

"Shezza," he said slowly, staring.

*BM is very, very loosely based on an actual soldier who received the Military Cross.