John and Greg were already coming up 221 Baker Street stairs together. 'I'll get you a chair, Greg, and a plate, there's enough to go around twice...'

Greg had to grab him by the elbow to make him stop. 'I can do that myself, John, you should seat down.'

'It's fine, no trouble at all', John was already going into the kitchen for another chair, Greg hasted to pick it up himself.

'So, what were you guys talking about when I got here?' Greg asked, pulling his chair to the table.

Mary and Mrs Hudson hesitated but Sherlock produced the answer on the spot: 'Getting shot. How about you, Greg, have you ever been shot?'

He blinked, and then looked over at John for answers. John was already handing him a plate and silverware and appeared embarrassed. Greg gave up his help at once and answered: 'Once, but it wasn't serious, I was lucky.'

Sherlock insisted: 'Then John and I had been shot more times than you, Greg.'

'It's hardly motive to brag... Anyway, why are you keeping score? Let's just give John the prize and give up, shall we?' The detective inspector tried to end it quickly.

John had sat down again, very stiff on his chair and with his gaze glazed. Mrs H was looking at him in concern and Mary was attentively waiting for him to snap out of it and notice her sympathy.

'John gets the trophy? I think you miscounted there, Greg. I've actually read his army file.' Mary shifted her attention to Sherlock.

'Not everything goes into the file, because as soon as you get officially shot you're sent back for evaluation. And, if you happen to be an army doctor...' he tilted his head. Sherlock looked over at John. He was very quiet.

'Oh, I see... Well spotted', was all he could say when John was noticeably absent. (John, the quiet loyal soldier as always.)

'He told me that once, I think he was already drunk on a birthday. You were invited too, Sherlock, but you didn't come.'

'And how many times, then, John?' he asked directly at his friend. John didn't move, only shifted his gaze towards him. Then slowly closed his eyes tight.

'Might have been more than once', he finally admitted with a course voice, opening his eyes directly at the wall ahead of him.

Greg helped him out: 'You told me about it once over a pint, on your birthday, but you were very drunk already.' Mrs Hudson gasped in concern.

He slowly carried his gaze towards Greg. 'Did I?' he asked expressionless, ghost-like.

'Oh, nice', Greg got sarcastic, 'so it was more than one other time?' he immediately read. He was getting angry, out of concern for John.

'I was drunk', John suddenly recovered all faculties and speed, replying with confidence and energy. 'I was pulling your leg, Greg, sorry about that, I admit now that it was in poor taste. I really must have been wasted that night. Birthdays, yeah, birthdays...' He was putting his energy into eating now.

'John? It's a bit late for that, you've already admitted it.'

'Admit what? I was a doctor, doctors don't get to see much action out there', his voice was gaining confidence. But it was useless, Mrs H was placing a gentle hand on his arm, with a pained expression. He looked at her honestly, with a sadness in his eyes for upsetting her.

Mary repeated in the same tone: 'Yeah, birthdays... He was joking, Greg.'

They shared a look that proved that both knew it wasn't a joke.

Sherlock frowned, the unspoken interactions had passed him by. Why were they playing along with John's lie? Why was he getting away with it? Why whenever Sherlock said something inappropriate no one ever let go, and when John was under the spotlight all of a sudden people changed the subject?

'That wasn't a joke! Isn't it obvious?' Sherlock pointed out, indignant. John just looked at him, with half of a smile, a bitter smile that then turned sweet. His friend was the only one there that wouldn't bow to the constraints of social interactions, defending the factual truth as if it were as important there as in his cases.

'Maybe we should let our guests eat, and we could talk later, Sherlock?' he asked, fully aware the subject wouldn't go away just by postponing it. In the process, however, he had just made a small mistake, and apparently only Sherlock had noticed the phrasing. Our guests. Mary, Greg, Mrs H as guests. Well, that would have been true back in the days John lived in Baker Street, not anymore. A simple tong slip that Sherlock enjoyed because it reminded him of the past. The one that still came around, but not as often. Now John had a full time job, a wife, and a new home. And Sherlock was mostly alone.

'Fine', Sherlock sustained.

John looked all around for a distraction. Mrs H came to the rescue.

'The potatoes are very nice indeed. Care to have some more, Detective Inspector?'

'Greg, call me Greg, and I'm fine, Mrs Hudson, thanks.'

There were knocks on the door downstairs, this time it was Mary getting up. Sherlock deduced immediately: 'It's Molly, now.'

'We should have brought more food', Mary commented.

'I invited Greg and Molly over', Sherlock said, lightly. She was already on her way down to the door and didn't say more. Anyway, he had been shot last night, and if he felt like having the only people in the world that cared for him around, it made sense in its own way, and it was more of Sherlock being human than Mary had ever seen of him.

'I'll get another chair', John snapped out of it, halting Sherlock with a brisk commanding gesture. It worked immediately. Greg suppressed a laugh with difficulty. Sherlock frowned at him, after he sat back down in obedience.

'Hello, Molly, welcome', John said as he added another chair around the small table. 'Have a seat.'

She'd look on straight at Sherlock before she turned to the chair and John. 'Feeling better, Sherlock? The two of you, I mean...'

John passed the question along to Sherlock with a look. Sherlock assured: 'We're fine, it was nothing.' Molly smiled quizzically. Sherlock didn't quite understand. That was what John always said, that must have been the appropriate cover up answer, therefore.

Molly took a seat by Greg's side with a shy smile. 'So, why did you call us here, Sherlock? This is quite a gathering', she opened his game. John glanced at Sherlock in surprise.

'Time economy', he replied. 'It's time to set up a trap to our friendly neighbourhood shooter and put this to a close at last. It's been going on for too long now. And everyone at this table will have a part in the plan.' He took a moment to look around. Mrs Hudson, Greg, they all seemed a bit dumbstruck. He glanced over at John, to sense his reading of the crowd. He looked confident, eager even, but Sherlock still hesitated. John always looked confident of his plans. Would they play along? Sherlock never really worked plans for teams, apart from some sparse contributions from his homeless network. But trusting John was implicit, Greg would be of assistance because of Scotland Yard, Molly offered chemical expertise to the gang, Mary's assistance as a specialist was invaluable, even Mrs Hudson could do a small part in the plan.

'Tell us about it', John asked him.

'I'd rather keep it open to improvisation, that way works best. I'll just let each one of you know what I want from you.'

-ooo-

'That was nice', the consulting detective admitted with some degree of difficulty, sitting at his armchair, receiving the daylight from the window at his back, his face deep in those shadows, similar to those mysteries he craved to solve.

At the time, Sherlock and John were the only ones left in Baker Street, after the living room had been transformed back to normal, with no traces left of their lunch.

John smiled, taking a seat in his own armchair, facing his friend. 'You don't need to try so hard, Sherlock. Well, I enjoyed it very much, missed it to be fair, so thanks for playing along.'

Sherlock faced John. 'You said you've been shot before, several times.'

John readjusted his position in the chair, involuntarily. It was a major give away, but he never seemed to realize it. 'I wouldn't go as far as saying "several"...'

'Why don't you like saying it? You were doing your job.' (A war hero, again.) 'Although, of course, it's debatable whether you should have been sent there in the first place... But you had your mission and you avoid taking about it for some reason, and it's not foreign politics...'

John stopped short for a second, stunned. He diverted his gaze to the fireplace as he said out loud: 'Isn't it obvious? I'm a useless used up soldier that got his fun on the battlefield until one shot too many threw me back in London. That's the easiest deduction around about me.' He forced a painful brave smile upon his face, but his eyes didn't match that expression.

'You liked being there? You wanted to stay there?' Sherlock's questions were innocent, he really wanted to understand.

'I left people there, Sherlock. My people, I failed them.' He admitted it maintaining the same frozen and intense expression.

'No, you absolutely didn't.'

'How would you know?' his smile was now bitter as if the expression in his eyes had sipped through to his constrained lips.

'I know because I'm your people now, John. That's how I know.'