This one is a little different from the others, folks: it's a 221B drabble!
Many thanks for the continued feedback; someone made an excellent point in their review of 'Dancing'. John wouldn't have landed en pointe-I actually meant to have him land in perfect balance on his tiptoes, and am not in any way a dancer myself, so my research was a bit lacking. Sorry all!
There was also a really helpful review on the chapter in which John gets hurt. It does seem a bit strange that John, who would have known how serious a cardiac tamponade is, didn't inform Commander Nelson once he knew everyone else had been stabilised. My view, when writing it, was that he knew they would be taken to one of the other trauma centres. When the consultant on call indicates the triage bays, the intention was that John would let the others go, then hang back to have a word with him. Unfortunately, because I have a bit of a flair for the dramatic, he didn't quite get that far.
The background to this chapter (which will be expanded on in the coming ones) is that Anderson is being his usual snarky self, and goes too far with Sherlock. When John defends him, Anderson questions his credentials, and John's response is a bit of a head-turner...
It had begun as a nice, straightforward locked-room murder. It transpired that the victim had been suffocated with carbon monoxide-not strangled, as Anderson had predicted-and Sherlock was gloating.
"Imbecile-John took one look and gathered more data than you did in your two-hour clown act."
"Worried we'll discover your proficiency with poisons, Freak?"
"You might, if you don't learn to know when you're beaten." John interjected with a steely smile.
"Oh, what would you know? You're just his lapdog-loyal and snappy, but not much cop in the guard-dog department!" Sherlock hissed like a scalded cat, whirling around to glare back.
Holding up a hand for quiet, John turned on a sixpence to face the pathologist. Every eye in the room swivelled towards the unfolding argument: even Greg peered over interestedly. John spoke quietly and stood ramrod straight.
"I have three commendations for bravery, including two mentions in despatches. In ten years I got three medals for medical prowess under enemy fire, a Military Cross and a George Cross. I reached the rank of Captain and I was on the promotion grid when I got shot."
With that, John left, nodded at Greg (grinning) and Sally (struck dumb), allowing himself a small smile as the officers looked respectfully away.
"For goodness' sake, it's not like it matters! They're just bits of brass..."
I will be honest. I don't know much about military matters, and I don't know what the criteria are for receiving medals; I know that there are levels, with the Military Cross being the third level, the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross being the second, and the George Cross being the first (on an equal footing with a Victoria Cross). The GC is awarded for actions of extreme bravery not directly in the face of the enemy (those awarded in Iraq and Afghanistan have generally involved IEDs/bomb disposal). The VC is awarded for action in the face of the enemy. I don't know how likely it is for an MO to get one of these, let alone all of them! The line about medals for medical prowess is pure fabrication, but I'm sure they must exist somewhere in the British Army.