A/N Drabble 20! We're now officially a fifth of the way through :B

Thanks to Fayet, johnsarmylady, and Guest

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XX. Fortitude

There's something about John Watson's very character that's undeniably extraordinary, and Sherlock always fails to pinpoint it. After all, his actual characteristics seem so average, so undeniably, pathetically mundane. He hates dogs and dislikes cats, but has a soft spot for kittens. He adores jam, strawberry the most, and prefers his tea without sugar. He sleeps on the left side of the bed, types with two fingers, watches Doctor Who with religious enthusiasm and doesn't mind a bit of Star Trek when it's thrown his way.

He's dull.

But there's something else to him—a side that's more army than doctor, something iron-strong and fire-bright, something that glimmers in the depths of his dark blue eyes only when they're in the most deadly of dangers. He's a soldier. He's killed people.

Sherlock's killed, too—twice, to be exact, not including the people that he's indirectly sentenced to death. The first time was in the very early stages of his career—he was just twenty-one, a decade from meeting Lestrade and longer form being trusted enough to be let in on real cases. He was young, wild, desperate to prove himself in any way possible. Not a very promising combination of circumstances, and, incidentally, one that ended up with him cornered down a pitch-black alleyway with a Persian assassin holding a knife to his throat. He was frantic, as close to fear as he'd even been, and therefore could hardly be blamed for his next actions—the delivery of a sharp, direct jab to the assassin's nose, breaking it and successfully disorienting him, grab hold of his hand, twist it around just in time to impale the larger man on his own eight-inch blade. He slumped to the ground and was dead within seconds, blood bubbling at his pale lips, eyes misted with vengeful ghosts. That image has stayed with Sherlock for years, and he can see it now, remember how his breath caught in his throat, how his stomach clenched and he told himself that he'd never, never take another life, not with his own hands. This wasn't because he was scared or squeamish, wasn't because the action was on any level wrong—it had only been self-defense, after all—but because it made him feel sick. Diseased, contaminated. He had murdered. He was a murderer, and that label could never be revoked. He still wears it now, but anonymously. No one knows that he killed that assassin so many years ago. Not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not even John.

But they now about the second time.

Because the second time was right in front of them—well, not in front of Mycroft, but security cameras made it good as.

It wasn't a trained killer, the second time. Just an ordinary outlaw, a street criminal, ragged and half-crazy. While the other memory is perfectly clear, this one comes back in small, lightning-bright flashes. The gun, sleek and dark in the criminal's hand. Lestrade tossing Sherlock a weapon of his own, which he seized with no intention of using. Yells, scuffles.

And John's face, slightly turned, eyes wide and bright. The outline of their quarry's arm, raised and steady, the clean silhouette of the gun directed evenly at the unsuspecting doctor's heart.

He pulled the trigger without thinking. There was a crack, a cry, a thud, and silence, sudden, pressing, consuming silence.

"Thanks." That was all that John said, voice slightly breathless, eyes glimmering with gratitude and almost… admiration.

He nodded mutely at the time, just accepting, saying nothing. The words were still in his mind, though, burning and vivid, and they still are now. He knows that he'll never voice them, but they still refuse to go away, always present, always nagging.

I'm nothing compared to you.