Nineteen months ago, Captain John Watson had thrown a six-foot-tall, 110kg fellow soldier over his shoulder and run him to cover. During a training exercise.
Thirteen months ago, Captain John Watson had kicked down a solid-hinged door and been first into a house in Kandahar identified as a possible hot-bed of insurgents. And been disappointed when it hadn't been.
Ten months ago, Captain John Watson had helped two others lift an overturned jeep off a young corporal after an offroad accident in Helmand Province, and spent a freezing night in the desert alone with the injured boy, awaiting backup from the R.A.M.C.
Seven months ago, Captain John Watson had been a major player in the successful seven-hour-long operation to restore Major Lance Gilbert's left leg, severed in yet another jeep accident.
Six months ago, Captain John Watson had broken cover and gone out under heavy fire to a boy named Josh Harris. Harris had come home in a coffin, and John had come home in a coma.
And now, on this January night, he was trying to explain to a police sergeant that he was stranded in Brixton with five pounds to his name and no way of walking home because of his bloody leg.
Try the main road.
Yeah, thanks for that amazing insight, Sergeant Donovan.
Limping off in the direction of a row of lighted shops, he paused for a second. Surely... if he asked her to call a cab... He couldn't pay for it, of course. But weren't the police supposed to help...?
He shook his head. He neither liked nor trusted Sergeant Donovan. That smirk of hers had been directed mostly at Sherlock Holmes, but had she been... delighted, when she realised Sherlock had left without him? She'd be all-too-happy to rub that in, even if she was prepared to help.
John thought briefly of DI Lestrade... he seemed an affable, tolerant, efficient kind of person. Maybe he'd be able to help without turning this into Pity-John-Watson hour.
And he's a homicide detective at a major crime scene, so he's got other things on his mind than worrying how you get home.
Maybe he should call Sherlock... see if he was okay? After all, surely he hadn't run off like that on purpose. But then he remembered, too late, that he hadn't yet asked for Sherlock's phone number.
Dammit.
He fumbled to check that he still had his wallet on him. Maybe there'd be a late night bus...? He wasn't sure how far five pounds was going to get him, but what other choice was there but to try?
He gritted his teeth. This was going to hurt.