"How's your leg?"

John frowned at Detective Inspector Lestrade in confusion. He and Sherlock had come to New Scotland Yard that afternoon to speak with Lestrade about the events of the evening before. Sherlock had spoken privately with him first and had now flounced off somewhere, and John, to his surprise, had also been called in to be interviewed. Though Lestrade, slumped in the office chair across the cluttered desk from him, didn't seem in a hurry to move off the small talk.

"'S fine," John said at last. "Why?"

"Well, 'cause the first time I saw you yesterday, you were using a cane. You're not even limping today."

John felt a brief flare of anger. Lestrade wasn't the first person he'd known to act like having a good day with his leg was the same thing as faking a bad day. The reward for a day without pain when you rested your leg and agony when you walked on it was always some smug bastard accusing you of faking it for fun. Though so far, this was far better than the best good day he'd had with his leg. No pain in it at all, even when he walked.

"Comes and goes," he muttered. "Psychosomatic."

"Okay." Lestrade shrugged and leaned back in his chair thoughtfully for a few seconds. "So I won't keep you long, Dr. Watson -"

"You can call me John."

Lestrade paused. "Greg," he finally offered, mumbling the name into his collar. "Don't wear it out in front of the team. Anyway, John, I won't keep you long. I've just got something to show you, if I could."

He beckoned John over to his open laptop. John, getting up and edging past the desk, saw the page open at his own blog. He felt a sudden self-conscious twinge in his chest as Lestrade highlighted a line of text with the mouse.

"This is your blog, then?" he asked casually.

"Uh, yes."

"Didn't take you very long to write up what happened."

"It's been a while since I had something to write about," John said. "My -"

He cut himself off cleanly before he could say it: my therapist wants me to write in it every day.

"Entertaining stuff," Lestrade remarked. "Read that bit out for me, will you?"

I could see he was about to take one of the pills...

"See, that's awfully good eyesight you've got, John Watson, if you were really standing in the front courtyard the whole time waiting for us to get there, like you said in your statement to Donovan last night."

John swallowed. "Yeah, well, um..."

Lying had never been John's forte.

"I'm not stupid, despite what Sherlock thinks," Lestrade said. "The only place you could have seen all that happen is from the window the shot was fired from. And a bloody good shot it was, too."

"I... um."

"But it burned your fingers a bit." Lestrade glanced at John's right hand. "Fired it off in a hurry, I bet."

There was a sudden silence.

"What are you going to do?" John finally asked quietly.

"We had the pills tested this morning," Lestrade went on, as if he hadn't heard. "They were both poisoned. Cyanide. You saved Sherlock's life. God only knows why, but I'm glad you did." He closed the laptop and stood up slowly. "John, if I ever catch you admitting to a serious crime on your blog again, God help you," he said. "'Cause I certainly won't. I've got no more questions."