Chapter 22

A/N: The next three chapters are definitely not fluff. This is the resolution to the story arc about John's medals and awards; the first chapter is context, the second shorter and from John's perspective and the last from Bill's. It's going to be hard to read, folks, but I wanted to do justice to the people who risk this every day, whether I agree with their line of work or not. This is post Reichenbach: there's not enough time before it to have more than one Spring!

Trigger warnings for the next three chapters: Blood, gore, hospital scenes, PTSD and depression, traumatic injury.


It was a bright Spring morning when John made his way out into the park with Sherlock. The sunshine sparkled across the surface of the boating lake as a family of ducks waddled by. Sherlock smirked as John smiled lazily, flopping down on the warm grass; Sherlock had been bored and John itching to get out into the blooming stretch of green, so they had picked up the carrot cake Mrs Hudson had left on the kitchen table, bought two bottles of juice ("Ginger ale, John? How very Famous Five."), and trekked out to people-watch. After sticking his middle finger up at Sherlock, whose rumbling laughter carried over the head of the overconfident squirrel who'd just stolen his crisps, John lay back with his hands under his head. He'd always watched clouds when he was a child, competing with Harry to see who could get the most disgusting meanings out of them (usually involving bogies). Surprisingly, Sherlock had also watched clouds as a child, though Mycroft had taught him Greek mythology while they did so. Doing something so simple with a friend who was so brilliant was something new to John. If he hadn't known Sherlock better (and he did still know him) he'd have thought Sherlock had learned to take time out to 'smell the flowers' and be mindful without thinking properly. It was their first Spring after his return, and John was still getting used to Sherlock's presence. Sherlock, on the other hand, was slowly getting used to Mary. Mary knew what had happened to him before as she had worked with him at Bastion; when she had decided to move back onto Civvy Street, they had ended up working together at Tommy's and moved from friends to lovers. Surprisingly, Mary's keen sense of humour and love of music made her a fine match for Sherlock, who had obviously decided that, far from being 'the one with the freckles' (the erstwhile sister of 'the one with the nose'), she was an excellent fit for John. He had even made a concerted effort not to deduce her.

As the sun went in and the weather cooled, John sat up to find Sherlock sitting too, his eyes roaming the park for interesting things to deduce. They narrowed for a second.

"John, isn't that PC Cumming, the one Lestrade's trying to get onto CID training? And who's that with him? It must be his mother. And his older brother, sister-in-law, nephew and one of two nieces. The youngest is at home with the chicken pox."

"I don't want to know how you know that, but yes, it is."

"And you helped his brother in Afghanistan?"

"I did."

John realised al of a sudden that his answers had become short and military-clipped, as though he was relaying casualty information; Sherlock was looking at him with his 'deducing' face on, trying to work out why John had shifted modes.

He turned. The little family were coming towards them, Blair and Callum making smiling gestures of acknowledgement.

The two of them stood up to meet them. Cal spoke up first.

"Cap! Good to see you again! How're you doing? Blair said you'd left?"

"I did, back in 2010."

Cal's mum chimed in, "We tried to send you a letter, to thank you, but they just sent it back. We assumed you'd been posted somewhere else, that's why I wished you luck when we met a few years ago. Did you fancy a change?"

John kept his face perfectly neutral as Blair grimaced behind his mother.

"He got injured, mum."

Two shocked faces turned to him.

"That's right. I was shot in the shoulder."

Cal's face went slack with horror.

"Not Kandahar? They said a medic had been injured after we'd been hit, but I never thought..."

John gave a grim little nod, then swapped it for a smile that was just a little bit too bright.

"I'm okay now, though. I'm very lucky-God help me, I really enjoy working with this one, and I'm a senior doctor in Tommy's A&E now that my hand's back in working order."

Blair smiled, his mother and brother breathing sighs of relief. Gesturing to his bionic arm, Cal grinned.

"You've gotta make the best of what you've got, haven't you? I'm very lucky too-I got this lot out of the deal."

The little family moved on soon after that, Blair staying behind long enough to speak to them both privately as the little boy trundled happily ahead of them on his trike.

"Sorry about springing that conversation on you, Doc. I didn't tell them because I wasn't sure how much he knew. He never forgot that you stayed." Across the grass, Cal's voice echoed as the dark-haired boy went a little too close to the edge for comfort.

"Thomas J. Cumming, you come away from that pond right now!"

There was a flicker of shock in John's eyes as Blair walked away. "See you on Monday, Mr Holmes. See you on Tuesday night, Doc!"

As John numbly collected the basket and the blanket, Sherlock binning the bottles, Sherlock could see him favouring his left leg. By the time they got back to Baker Street, John had necked two ibuprofen dry, and hurried up to his room when they entered the flat.

Bearing a passable cup of tea, Sherlock made his way quietly up the stairs. Knocking on the door, he was met with silence.

"John? I've got tea."

He slowly opened the door, holding the mug in front of him like a shield. John was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring straight out of the window into the sky. His hand was shaking, and he was flexing his toes as though his calf were cramping. Sherlock sat next to him on the bed, proffering the mug. John took it with the barest of smiles, and they sat there in silence for an interminable length of time. Sherlock wasn't bored, however. John could never bore him, even when he was locked inside his own head.

After dark had already fallen, John turned to him.

"Can I tell you about Kandahar?"