A/N - Still not: British, a doctor, or anything other than myself. -csf

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'I thought you'd pass this one up, John.'

That's the first thing Greg Lestrade told me and Sherlock upon our arrival at this Hospital. I gave him a strained smile and a nod, I could feel Sherlock's piercing gaze stuck on me as he turned his neck so fast it could have whip-lashed him. From that moment on, after Greg's inconfidence, Sherlock's gaze would never stray away from me for longer than a couple of seconds. His whole attention caught on me and the place where I had come to, as a patient, upon being evacuated home from Afghanistan.

I unite my hands behind my back and pace slowly by the DI and detective's side.

I know this place like the back of my hand.

'Reception's this way, guys', Greg directs us.

They fixed me as much as they could.

Not nearly enough.

'Second floor. That's where our suspect has been lodged. Are you sure this is important, Sherlock?'

I remember it as if it were yesterday.

'Our suspect must have forged a bond with one of the doctors in here', Sherlock assures us impatiently. 'That's how he managed to obtain the confidential information on our victim. It's the only solution that fits!'

'Or someone sneaked in, in the middle of the night, when the shifts change and the nurses are watching rerun episodes of Coronation Street', I mutter, absent-mindedly. I'm startled as they both stare openly at me. I even need to rewind my words and thought process. 'Oh, yeah, it's easy enough, guys.'

Greg points out: 'This is supposed to be a secured location, John. Are you sure?' Sherlock's already got his case-solved smug smirk on.

'I'm sure. I had time to study this place, once before.'

Sherlock's frowning now. 'It wasn't cigarettes, you don't smoke. Or drinking, it'd have messed up your meds and you're too knowledgeable of the interactions to let it happen. It wasn't friends because you were all alone when you came back to London. Sure you had friends, but you wouldn't risk your health to be with any of them, they weren't that close, you had no one to take you in, that's why you were looking for a flatmate... Harry, your sister. You were worried about her. How many times did you sneak out of here to check up on her, to make sure she made it home safely after a night of binge drinking, John?'

Greg is staring at both of us, now, back and forth, as if watching a tennis match.

I square my shoulders. 'Maybe a couple of times', I downplay it, responding against my will.

Match point for Sherlock.

'Will you show us, John?' Greg resumes.

I finally look straight at him. 'Yeah, sure... What else do you need? Confidential patient files cabinet? Restricted areas where the more controlled medication is stored? Physical therapy ward? Well, that last one isn't necessarily a secret or difficult to access. Everyone here knows it only too well.'

'John, you don't need to be here if you don't want to.'

I realise I may have spoken too roughly to Greg. Didn't really mean to.

'Actually, I do need to be here', I understand at this moment. 'Sorry about that.'

'No worries, mate. Just... We're glad you're here with us now, okay?' With a couple of embarrassed small pats on my shoulder (wrong shoulder, Greg!) he carries on to Sherlock: 'In this case, I could be right all along, and the brother did it. He has the medical knowledge too.'

Sherlock hums in distracted agreement. Greg insists: 'He could have been an intern in here, I guess. Ever heard of a Chandler, John? A physical therapist, possibly. You must have met quite a few in here.'

Refocusing, I strain my memory. 'Tall guy, blond, heavy, beady eyes?' I recall. Both Sherlock and Greg nod. Again I'm feeling distracted as I take notice of a couple of patients in wheel chairs down the hallway behind my friends. I remember those days. With both my leg and my shoulder giving me hell.

Sherlock glances over his shoulder, as Greg is fast taking notes on a pocket notebook.

'And you're sure he could have sneaked back in without being noticed?'

I nod, confidently. I've done it enough times, haven't I?

Sherlock asks, loud and impatient: 'Can we finally see his room so I can show you where he hid the murder weapon, detective inspector?'

'You don't know where he hid the weapon, Sherlock.'

'I'll know within two minutes in the room, won't I?' he alleges, too smugly.

All the while his attention is still stuck on me.

'So, who dunnit?' I ask, just to disengage Sherlock of studying me. 'The patient or the therapist?'

'Both. Do catch up, John!' Sherlock snaps back.

I shrug and follow the two detectives into the second floor's ward. I quite remember this place. Not all the comforts in here - after a war zone - could make me call it a home.

Not like Baker Street was to me, shortly after.

Still is.

'Here! See, Lestrade!'

Sherlock's enthusiastic call brings me back to reality all of a sudden. He's just found the murder weapon - a long thin blade - hidden in a hollow bed pole by using an earth magnet to suck it out. Very ingenious. Triumphant, he turns to me like a kid who has just won an icecream, and I tell him, sincerely: 'Amazing, Sherlock.'

Noncommittally he defends in an unusual modesty: 'Commonplace, John.'

'Shall we get out of here?' I ask them. 'We can sneak out like I did in the old days.' They agree at once.

One last time.

A nurse calling buzzer startles me, from another ward. I lose myself in the sound. I've been on both sides of it, as a doctor and as a patient. Perhaps I should have seen it coming. Only I never did.

Greg is leading the way according to my directions, Sherlock has fallen behind for once, coming closer to me. His strides are matching mine, as he fakes an interest in the rooms we walk by. He's not fooling me for a second. I'm still his puzzle, born of some morbid curiosity perhaps, I've been the puzzle ever since Greg opened his big mouth...

'Just drop it, John', he whispers within earshot. 'It'll never happen again. I've got your back and you've got mine. '

I stare at my friend, stunned by his mind-reading, even a bit scared by it.

'Am I that obvious?'

My friend smiles apologetically. 'Well, I'm supposed to be a great detective', he offers me a way out. I smile, much more confidently. 'That's what my invaluable blogger keeps posting.'

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