Could have been written better if I knew more about the British military and their society's response to it, but since I'm American well I know just about nothing about any other country. Thank the school system.

John Watson was not a drunk. That's not to say he drank rarely, he enjoyed a pint every now and again just like any other bloke. Still, he rarely drank to the point of making stupid choices, it did happen. Tonight was one of those rare instances.

It'd been a long week and so when Stamford invited him and a few of his other friends down to the pub, he ended up drinking long after the others had gone home. This turned out to be a very poor choice indeed.

"All I'm sayin' is they go out to war, and come home all hyped up ready to kill someone!" There was a man sitting at a table behind where John sat at the bar, and he was making his opinion quite known to his friends. Clearly he was unaware of John's military history.

"They're crazy, all of them." The man slurred. "And I don't wanna show support for some crazy people that are just gonna come home and kill other people."

"There was that murder last week, that guy was a soldier wasn't he?" His friend agreed.

"Exactly." The offensive man continued. "Besides, they're lazy. Once they come back, they don't wanna work like the rest of us because they think just cause they went to war they're something special!"

John sighed, he knew he was drunk and saying something would only cause trouble, but he was starting to get a little offended. He tried to keep his head down and out of the argument but the man only grew louder. Finally John had had enough.

"Mate, you mind not talking so loud?" John turned around on his stool and folded his arms over his chest, regarding the man. He was tall and beefy, just as you'd expect from the size of his voice, and he sported a big black beard.

"I can say what I want, when I want." The man snorted, not impressed by John's anger.

"Sure, you can say what you want. Doesn't mean you should." John replied evenly. The man stood and chuckled, shaking his head from side to side while his buddies laughed along with him.

"You wanna make something of it, mate?" The man growled.

"Oh, I'm not looking for any trouble." John glared. "I just don't think you should be insulting the military, we do actually defend your sorry arse if you don't realize."

"Oh, you're one of them, eh?" The man spat back. "That scum."

"Don't you think you should be a little more respectful?" John stood up, swaying slightly as he did. The man laughed, and didn't even reply. Instead he turned and sat back down with his friends and went straight back into conversation with them, which turned out to be what convinced John that he needed to beat the offensive man's face in.

Sherlock heard John's footsteps coming up the stairs, and was slightly surprised as he hadn't noticed that John had gone out. Of course he'd been rearranging the mind palace, and so hadn't noticed much of anything. He was laying on the couch with his eyes shut and various nicotine patches spread across his pale arms. He really wanted a cigarette, but he'd recently found out that John refused to kiss anything that tasted like an ash tray.

The door to the flat swung open and John shuffled in. Sherlock deduced from the sound of John's feet sliding across the floor that he'd been drinking quite a bit. Also his limp was acting up again or...no that was the other leg. Why was he limping with the other leg? That warranted opening his eyes for further observation.

Sherlock sat up and turned his head like a watchful cat, and saw John collapse into his chair with a sigh. John had a painful looking bruise forming on his cheek, and he was holding his arm to his chest. The leg appeared to have sustained no serious damage, but he favored it as though it had been hurt in some way. So a barfight then.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was calm and betrayed none of the concern he felt.

"Leave me alone." Was the doctor's response, his voice angry and tense. Sherlock frowned and swung his legs off the couch before standing and walking over to his boyfriend. He knelt in front of John and examined him closer, noticing several other scrapes and bruises he hadn't earlier. He also noticed that the arm John held to his chest was bandaged.

"...Glass?" Sherlock asked, touching the bandaged arm. John hissed with pain and then nodded stiffly. "Window most likely." Sherlock added.

"Yes, a bloody window, okay?" John groaned. "I missed."

"Inebriation tends to do that to aim." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "But you went to the hospital so not all of your judgement was impaired."

"Oh shut up." John playfully swatted at Sherlock with his good arm, even though his eyes were still far from playful.

"What did they say to you?" Sherlock asked, rubbing circles on John's hand with his thumb. A technique he had recently learned helped to calm the doctor.

"It's nothing." John sighed. "Just some idiots insulting soldiers."

"Mhmm." Sherlock lay his head on John's lap, pressing a kiss to his hand.

"I wasn't in the right state of mind, I should have walked away."

"Judging by the state of your knuckles you got a few good hits in."

"Until I hit the window, yeah."

Sherlock chuckled and looked up at John. "You have no need to prove yourself, John. You did that in Afghanistan, and everyday I drag you out on another adventure."

"Oh shut up." John, not very good at emotional expression, sighed.

"Come to bed." Sherlock stood and offered John his hand. "You'll be very hungover tomorrow." John stood and stumbled into Sherlock's chest, leaning against him for support. He tried to give him a kiss but it was sloppy and he nearly missed.

"I love you." He growled into Sherlock's shirt front.

"I love you too." Sherlock replied, a little embarrassed.