It was sheer boredom that had brought Sherlock to the pub. Once a month, give or take a few days, John met up with a small, constantly varying group of fellow ex and current soldiers of his acquaintance, and it was acknowledged between them that Sherlock had a standing invitation to join them, despite the fact that he had never once acted upon it.

Eight days without a case though, along with five whole days of John at the surgery from 8.30 to 5.30 each day (not counting his commute, which took him a ridiculously long time and about which Sherlock felt like writing a letter to a politician or possibly just nagging Mycroft) had left him feeling bored and twitchy, sick even of his experiments. So a Friday evening in the pub, quietly observing John's friends, would be at the very least a fresh location.

He had an agreement with John that, among friends, he could deduce as much as he liked as long as he kept it to himself, with the exception of occasions when somebody was trying to harm or be cruel to somebody else. By 8pm, Sherlock knew the life histories of the five other men around the table, and had quietly and politely as possible revealed that Motson (feeling unfairly treated over his recent lack of promotions and still slightly sore at John for having gained the rank of Captain ahead of him) had been making up the story about his ex-wife's boyfriend in order to save face. John had watched Sherlock carefully as he spoke, but seemed to be satisfied that he was keeping his word, and told Motson to stop spreading rumours about Cathy who was, apparently, a 'decent girl'.

By 9pm, Wallis and Almond were drunk and laughing uproariously over some anecdote about a jeep that Sherlock couldn't see the humour in. John was smiling and making conversation with a younger soldier he didn't know very well, Hutchinson, who was on leave and had been brought along by Almond. Motson sat quietly and fumed, glaring at Sherlock and John when he thought they wouldn't notice.

Presently, John excused himself and went to the lavatory, and Sherlock took the opportunity to persue an issue he'd noticed when they sat down.

Catching Hutchinson's eye, he leant across the table to speak quietly to the young man, the soldier doing the same.

"You never actually served with John, did you," he stated confidently. "Or, at least, you've never had any relationship with him before now, though you know of one another. Due to your youth and lack of further education, you would not have had cause to work with him in the medical corps or to have gone through training with him. You have an acquaintance with Almond but are not close friends and you don't know anyone else at this table. You openly admire John, but have obviously never had a conversation with him before this evening. You don't admire him for his military achievements, as Wallis has achieved equal acclaim yet you've barely interacted with him."

Hutchinson's raised eyebrows told him he was correct, and the lack of anger or threats told him he hadn't overstepped any lines that John would not approve of. "Fuckin' hell!" Wallis exclaimed appreciatively.

"You are something of an abberation," Sherlock concluded "And I would like to know why you are here."

The other men had gone quiet now, and Hutchinson raised his head to exchange a glance and a half smile with Almond.

"Captain Watson saved my life once," Hutchinson explained.

Sherlock frowned. "He has saved many people's lives, I'm sure."

Hutchinson grinned and shook his head slightly, conscious of his own fancy. "Most of them have met him though. I was knocked out before he got to me, and I woke up to be told that he'd saved me. By that time he'd gone back to his base camp."

Sherlock studied him once more, certain that there was more to it still. His gaze unnerved Hutchinson enough that the young man turned to Almond.

"It's alright," Almond told him. "Tell 'im the rest."

Hutchinson shrugged and nodded, then turned back to Sherlock with an open smile.

"It was a landmine. I was hurt so bad, I was sure I was dying. So was our medic, he was talking to me about what I wanted my Mum to be told and what not. I can remember feeling my heart slowing down. Apparently, Captain Watson showed up just a few seconds after I passed out and my heart stopped. They couldn't do heart massage or whatever it's called, cos' my ribs were broken up. It would've wrecked my lungs and then I'd have been in just as bad a state. But he sorted me out."

He leaned back in his chair a little and lifted up the front of his shirt, baring his stomach and lower chest. Across his torso, just under the line of his lower ribs, was a ragged scar running most of the width of his chest.

"He cut me open, reached in and squeezed my heart until it started pumping again. Saved me. He did my surgery too, when they got me back to base in the helicopter. I talked to one of the other doctors later and she told me there was a one in a million chance of that working, given the state I was in. He did it though."

Hutchinson smoothed his shirt back down and took a swig of his drink. The rest of the table was silent and thoughtful

"Funny thing, to think that some bloke you've never met has actually held your heart in his hand. So Almond brought me along to meet him." He nodded to himself. "He's a good bloke."

"He is," Sherlock agreed.

The door to the loos creaked and John emerged, crossing the floor to the table quickly.

"Why're we all so quiet?" he asked, glancing at Sherlock as if he expected him to have caused trouble.

"Hutch 'as been showin' us 'is war wound," Almond told him, and John chuckled and reached for his glass, unaware of the stares he was recieving from Motson and Wallis. Silly of them, Sherlock thought. John was a good doctor, of course he would have done things like this. It wasn't that impressive.

John drained his glass. "I'll get another round," Hutchinson offered.

"Nah, it's my turn," Motson countered, unexpectedly.

Sherlock got to his feet. "I'll get it," he said, and forestalled any argument by turning at once to make his way to the bar.

"Sherlock? Seriously?" John asked, confused.

Sherlock was already halfway to the bar by then and could pretend he hadn't heard him.

::

As I understand it, internal cardiac massage is not a rare technique, though it isn't often used, as other techniques are preferable as long as the condition of the patient allows for them. I chose it because I thought a battlefield would be a fairly likely place for such a thing to become necessary, and because I wanted something nice and dramatic for John to have done.
Sherlock will never, but never, admit that he is impressed.