John was working on the dresser again when a knock came on his flat door. He stood, wiping his hands on a rag that he then tossed on top of the dresser and rubbed his face to get some of the sawdust off. He had the whole thing sanded now and was cleaning it to get the dust off before varnishing it again. The project had been slowed somewhat by Jamie's arrival in the flat, but John didn't mind. He'd take the company and the knowledge that his friend was working again and out of that damned halfway house over a small delay in finishing his project.

He thought it might be Mrs. Hudson and hoped she hadn't climbed up those steps if her hip was bothering her, but usually she just called. It wouldn't be Jamie – he had his own set of keys, of course.

John was only a little surprised to find Sherlock standing at his door when he pulled it open. Well, of course, he thought to himself. Who else can just waltz into this building?

Anyone else would have buzzed at the front door, but Sherlock apparently had keys to the entire planet. John wouldn't have been surprised if he was on a first name basis with the Queen and went round for a cuppa and just walked right into her apartments in the palace. He was beginning to think it was astonishing he hadn't run into Sherlock in Afghanistan. He probably could walk into any country he wanted, assured of his presence there. Hell, he probably had people working for him in almost every country in the world.

"'Afternoon, Sherlock," John said, to which Sherlock gave him a single, cool nod. "Is something the matter?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied in a clipped voice. "You have deprived me of my second-in-command. This creates a significant number of complications, although I appreciate you are unlikely to be aware of this. I run a large organisation, John, that requires a great deal of work that I cannot or do not do on my own."

John sighed. Really?

"Okay, but you can't tell me Gabriel does everything you don't do," he replied. "Sure, I get that I don't know how much work being a criminal mastermind is, but it seems to me like you've got more than just the two of you."

"Indeed," Sherlock said icily. "Delegation of these matters is not a major concern."

"Then what?"

Sherlock hesitated and John fought the urge to roll his eyes. He probably just wanted to complain.

"There are certain matters that I trust Gabriel with that I do not trust to anyone else but myself but prefer not to handle because I find them tedious," Sherlock said and John held back a sarcastic remark and just nodded. In his mind, he translated this to "He does the things I don't want to do and he has to do them because I'm his boss". Well, John did understand that, to some extent. He'd been a captain in the army. He'd delegated his fair share of shit jobs.

"Well I didn't really deprive you of him," John pointed out. "That Mister Williams from the US did. If you want to take this up with anyone, it should probably be him."

Sherlock snorted, cocking an eyebrow at John but his grey eyes registered something else – something that looked suspiciously like partially concealed amusement.

"Much to my relief, Mister Williams does not work for me. If he did, I'd be entirely displeased with his performance because he failed quite thoroughly in both of his objectives and managed to get himself caught as well."

John gave Sherlock an incredulous look, but he seemed entirely serious. Only he could judge the situation like that, John thought. Yes, Williams had failed to get Mrs. Hudson – thank God – and failed to kill Gabriel and then been caught by Jim, and John thought all of these were good things. Sherlock obviously did too, but of course he could see it from the other perspective.

It was a bit creepy.

"You, on the other hand, do work for me."

"So this means you can come round to my flat and berate me for doing the job you hired me to do?" John asked.

Sherlock snorted again, but his lips twitched in the ghost of a smile.

"I am not berating you," he said. "Believe me, John, you would be absolutely certain if I were. There would be no question whatsoever."

John raised his eyebrows.

"All right," he said. "And yes, I put your injured man on medical leave because he needs it. Like I told you, if he doesn't take time off now, it's going to take him much longer to recover. I'm a surgeon, Sherlock. And I've been shot. I know the recovery from both sides. If you want me to do the job you hired me for, you have to listen to me even when you don't like it. That's the thing about doctors."

"Oh, I am well aware," Sherlock commented dryly.

John sighed.

"Then what do you want?" he asked.

"To start, I would like to come in," Sherlock said, pulling one gloved hand from the pocket of his overcoat and gesturing the flat. John started somewhat – it was a bit rude not to have invited him in, but then again, Sherlock was his boss, not his best mate or anything.

Still, it wasn't that unexpected, if only because it was Sherlock and John was starting to get used to the way he did things.

"Come in, then," John said. "Tea?"

"Please," Sherlock replied, making himself at home without any invitation to do so this time, hanging his coat and sinking onto the couch as if he belonged there. John let it pass; it didn't actually make him uneasy despite the fact that he knew it should. He supposed that after all the people he'd dealt with in Afghanistan – from pretty much every side that there was – one British man just wasn't that much of a threat, even if he was armed and the head of a major crime organisation.

Perspective, John snorted to himself.

"I quite liked the tea you served last time. Do you have the same kind?"

John poked his head back out of the kitchen.

"Yes, I do, but it's just regular tea from the grocery store." He fetched the box and held it up and Sherlock just nodded like this didn't surprise him.

"It was excellent nonetheless," he said, further confirming to John how odd he was. It was just tea, and pretty cheap stuff to boot. "And do you happen to also have any of those biscuits with chocolate on?"

"What?" John asked, leaning back this time to see his boss in the living room.

Sherlock made a circle with his thumb and index finger, not quite bringing them together.

"The tea biscuits that have the chocolate on them. About so big," he explained.

"You mean HobNobs?" John asked, suddenly remembering some similar debate between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson on the day John had met his landlady.

"Yes, those," Sherlock said happily. John gave him a puzzled look but Sherlock seemed entirely serious and not at all bothered by the correction. Who didn't know that word?

"I think we do," John said. "Pretty sure Jamie just bought some."

He was right – his flatmate had. John made tea and put some biscuits on a plate and took it all into the living room, where Sherlock snagged two of the HobNobs with apparent delight.

Seriously? How rich is he and he thinks these are a real treat?

"I want to say thanks for the dinner you arranged for me and Harry on my birthday," John said. He'd been meaning to do this, but had wanted to do so in person and the previous day had been taken up by a visit out to Buckhurst Hill with Jamie and Harry to see his mum. "That was – well, unexpected, to be honest, but really brilliant. You really didn't have to do that."

Sherlock just waved one hand dismissively at the last comment but looked pleased nonetheless. He didn't bother to explain why he'd done it, John noted.

"I'm happy to hear you enjoyed it," he replied. "It is one of the better restaurants in the city."

I'll say, John thought. And wondered again at the incongruity of someone who probably ate there on a regular basis treating HobNobs with such obvious glee.

"I'm getting excellent reports from my head mechanic regarding James," Sherlock said and John had to think a moment to realise he meant Jamie – he never used that name with his old friend. "I must thank you for recommending him."

John snorted and Sherlock gave him a puzzled look.

"Sorry," John said. "It's just that – well yes, of course he's brilliant at it. He was brilliant at it out there and here he's not being shot at while he works."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, appearing genuinely surprised.

"Does that happen?"

John blinked then stared at him a moment, trying to gauge if he was serious.

"Yes, it happens. All the time. How much do you know about the war?"

"I'm happy to say not very much at all," Sherlock replied. "Afghanistan is not really my area."

John stared again, frowning.

"Not really your – You don't have any operations down there?"

Sherlock sniffed and gave him an offended look.

"Certainly not. I'm not a war profiteer, John. I see very little value in wasting human life for short term gain. It ultimately reduces the amount of customers and these sorts of operations are fraught with complications. I will admit to being almost entirely ignorant of how many armed forces are present in Afghanistan outside of the British and American militaries and I am certain you can appreciate on a very personal level how many levels of security and bureaucratic red tape one must pass through just to gain entry into the country."

John opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"But – you are a criminal, I mean –"

"Yes, do you imagine that organised crime has no bureaucracy and diplomacy? It's simply not advertised because, as you point out, we are criminals. If you must know, my operations are primarily located in Europe and parts of North America and Asia where the political situations are much more stable even if, at present, our economies are not. It is so much simpler to work in these environments, and simpler work results in more money."

"You do know that Helmand Province is one of the biggest sources for heroin production on the planet, right?"

"I am aware of that, yes," Sherlock said. "And I know you are aware that I do not participate in the drugs trade, because I did tell you that."

John stared at him again, disbelieving.

"Ah, I see. You thought I was lying."

"Of course I thought you were lying! It's a multi-billion pound industry!"

"And my areas of expertise have not left me a pauper by any stretch of the imagination. But the problem with the drugs trade is that many of the players tend to be addicts themselves or trigger happy or simply psychopaths. I am aware that you're going to point out that Jim is a psychopath. I know this. I would rather deal with Jim than with an addict."

"So, wait, you're telling me that you don't run drugs because you don't like them?"

"Quite right. Please don't misunderstand me, John. I am not a nice man. I have no qualms about this. I have chosen this route because I enjoy the game and I enjoy making very large sums of money at other people's expense. I see no reason to mince words about that – don't look so shocked. It's no more than you were thinking about me anyway. But I do not like drugs. I don't care a whit what other people do with them – you could bathe in a tub full of your Afghani heroin as long as you were sober on the job and did your work as I expect it."

"It's not my heroin," John said sharply. "Don't you know that's one of the things we're trying to stop out there?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, then sat back and appeared to consider that. "Yes, I suppose that makes sense."

John felt a flash of anger then it drained away quickly – the expression on Sherlock's face told him he wasn't being obtuse or callous. He just didn't think about it because it wasn't his problem. John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. How many people felt that way? Once he may have blamed them. Now he wasn't so sure. After all he'd seen and done, he could understand the value of blissful ignorance. But that attitude might just be making things worse.

"You really don't know much about the war, do you?" he asked.

"No," Sherlock replied forthrightly, apparently not at all bothered by his answer. "I have done some research since having met you but I hope you'll appreciate that I am a very busy man. I generally leave this in my brother's purview."

"Your brother?" John asked.

"Oh yes. He's in government."

John paused, thinking about this.

"And – uh – does he know what it is that you do?"

"Mycroft? I can't imagine that he doesn't. He makes it his business to know what I'm doing, often against my wishes, which he seems to dismiss as irrelevant." There was a flash of distaste in the curl of Sherlock's lips at that and John marvelled – sibling rivalry? Really? A major crime boss chafed under the overbearingness of an older brother? And he must be older, John thought, because Sherlock was in his early thirties at best and John couldn't imagine someone younger than him having that kind of effect on him.

"And he hasn't – well, he hasn't had you arrested?"

"Why would he?" Sherlock enquired, seeming truly puzzled. "He's in government. The majority of what he does can be considered crime and he sometimes finds it useful to have access to someone close to him who operates outside of regular channels."

"Ah," John said, really only for something to say.

"Do you still have friends there?"

"What, in government?" John asked.

Sherlock flashed him a look that was chock full of do-try-to-keep-up.

"Oh, Afghanistan, yeah of course. My old unit is still down there. It wasn't all of us who were injured the day I was shot."

"How many others?" Sherlock asked. John felt his expression darken for a moment and was sure Sherlock must have noticed but he didn't retract the question.

"Jamie and I were the only ones invalided back to England. Two more men were injured by not badly enough to come home and stayed there. One man died."

"Hmm," Sherlock said, almost noncommittally, but then his expression turned thoughtful. "You're concerned for their safety, of course."

"Of course," John echoed sharply.

"But there must be a number of people in your unit and other medical personnel with whom you worked. You were stationed at Bastion, which is the headquarters for military operations in Afghanistan."

"I thought you said you didn't know anything about the war," John said hotly.

"No, I said I do not know very much at all, which is a larger sum of knowledge than nothing. And I do make it my business to know about the people whom I hire, John."

John wondered how the conversation had got to this point – he felt like he'd lost any track of it sometime after the discussion about HobNobs but also felt that Sherlock wasn't going to let him out of it. Most people would recognise the "I do not want to talk about this" looks John was shooting Sherlock now, and he was certain his boss wasn't missing them, just ignoring them altogether.

"Yes to both," John muttered. "But that doesn't mean I'm not worried about all of them."

"Such as Tricia Remsen?"

John's gaze snapped up fast, eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a thin line, and Sherlock actually looked taken aback for the briefest of moments.

"How do you know about Tricia?" John demanded.

"Her name on your blog," Sherlock replied and John held himself rigid for several long seconds, then forced himself to relax. Of course.

"You read my blog," he said flatly.

"Of course. It's quite entertaining."

"I thought you said you were a busy man."

"I am indeed, but it does not take long and it is in my best interests to know what I can about my employees, particularly those close to me."

"And I'm sure you could find all out about her on your own but since you're not going to let it go gracefully, then yes, she's one of them."

"Graciously."

"What?"

"The word you wanted was 'graciously', not 'gracefully'."

John tried to shift mental gears then shook his head.

"She's my friend," he said flatly, and left it at that. Sherlock gave him another arched eyebrow but John didn't rise to the bait – he didn't want to go into that. Let Sherlock find out what he wanted to know through whatever his usual channels were.

"Is Helmand Province a dangerous place?" Sherlock enquired.

John grunted.

"The whole of the country is dangerous," he replied. "But Helmand is pretty bad, yeah. In part because of the poppy trade. Places like Kabul are slightly better."

"I can understand why you may not want to discuss it, then," Sherlock said, apparently finally getting the message and letting it drop. John fought against sagging in relief – he thought about the people he cared for who were still there every day, almost every waking moment, even if it was only in the back of his mind. There were times when he and Jamie had to avoid talking about Tricia because it was too tense to do so, knowing they were both here and she was still there. And she was friends with both of them. She was family to both of them, really. John didn't want to be talking about her to someone who didn't know her, whose only interest in her was knowing more about John's life.

John wasn't even sure why his boss cared so much about his life. He wanted to just write it off to general nosiness, but he thought he actually detected a hint of concern around the edges of those light grey eyes.

John took a deep breath – no need to be angry if that was genuine interest. He wouldn't have thought it possible, not for a man like Sherlock, but there it was.

He let out his breath in a slow exhale, letting the tension ebb from his muscles.

"Sorry," he said and Sherlock raised both eyebrows this time. "I don't like talking about it. But yes, she's like family. And I miss her. So there you go."

"Understandable," Sherlock agreed with a nod, then put his tea mug aside. "All right, Doctor, let's go."

"What?" John asked, derailed by this sudden switch in the conversation. "Go? Go where?"

Sherlock stood, giving him a mildly puzzled look.

"I did say that you've deprived me of my second-in-command. Therefore, I am expanding your job duties to include whatever else I see fit."

"But – I can't do Gabriel's job. I don't even know what he does. I wouldn't know the first thing about what to do!"

"Of course not," Sherlock agreed. "I have several people who can assume his responsibilities until you allow him to return to work. However, you are a former army captain and quite an expert marksman according to your records. You will be a significant intimidating presence should I require one. And you may have other skills that have yet to be discovered."

John thought that it must be a joke this time, surely. But Sherlock was watching him with an expectant expression.

"What – what do you want me to do?"

"Oh, just generally stand and look vaguely menacing," Sherlock said offhandedly, as if this wasn't an utterly absurd request. "But first, you will need to shower and change. It's difficult to look menacing covered in sawdust in and dressed the way you are. And you will need your gun. A shirt and good trousers should do for the clothing, no need for a tie, I think. Hmm, no, not yet at any rate. Well, John, what are you waiting for? I think I just gave you fairly clearly instructions. Shower, change, make yourself presentable. I have work that needs to be done, so the sooner, the better."

John gave up – both in protesting and in trying to understand. He had no illusions that once Sherlock decided he wanted something, he got it. John's contract said nothing about being what amounted to a hired goon, but as long as he didn't have to shoot anyone – at least anyone who didn't deserve it – he couldn't really argue. Mostly because Sherlock could probably change the contract and make it look like the original document that John had signed specified this sort of work as well.

It gave him something to do, he thought as he rather reluctantly left Sherlock to his own devices and went to shower. He hadn't been doing much in the way of work other than checking on Gabriel, none of Sherlock's other employees having recently run afoul of other gun-totting maniacs. John tried to put a good face on it as he stripped down in his bathroom – after carefully locking the door, of course. At very least, it promised to be interesting company.