Another chapter: there will be one for each of John's medals, with the exception of his medical awards, for the simple reason that we've seen a lot of Dr John Watson lately. He might be back at some point, you never know...The parts in italics are John's memories of the incidents in his citations, as I thought it would read better if he wasn't actually saying it all out loud. John is a straight talker, so I hope his riposte to Greg doesn't seem out of character.

Disclaimer: I know nothing about military matters, so I don't know what rank John would be at this point. If anyone can give me any info, it would be much appreciated.

Disclaimer so I don't get sued: If I owned a show in which Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch acted, I would be keeping the plots all to myself, the better to keep the series going. The show belongs to the Beeb and Messrs Gatiss and Moffat.

"John, Sherlock. Glad you could come. Since that, er, confrontation with Anderson," (Greg was smiling; somehow Sherlock suspected they were not at NSY for a reprimand), "I've been doing a bit of research myself. I got in touch with an old mate of mine who's been training new police recruits in Kabul. He's an ex Red Cap, and he owed me a favour from way back. He took the liberty of emailing over the public bits of your service record."

At the mention of Kabul, John tensed beside him, ears pricking up. When Lestrade mentioned his service record, the doctor visibly paled. His voice was hard and flinty as he responded, with an admirable facade of politeness.

"What meant you needed to see my file? Am I a suspect for some sort of heinous crime involving illegal poker in a forward operating base?"

His smirk was obviously hiding anger at Greg's invasion of his privacy, and not a touch of panic: the tic in John's jaw told him so. The DI had obviously noticed, and held his hands palms-out in a surrender gesture.

"Look, John. You never said anything before, and I've noticed you're, er, experienced in military matters. You wouldn't have told me if I'd asked, because you don't think you deserve those accolades, and I couldn't stay away from it. I'm sorry, mate."

"First things first; no, I wouldn't have told you if you'd asked me then. It's different when we're talking as mates, rather than you interrogating me. Secondly, I was quite happy to accept the Nightingale Medals. I told Sherlock on our first case that I was very good at what I do. I trained hard, and no matter what this lump says I'm not exactly stupid. Lastly, I'm very angry that you did that, because you had no right to snoop in my personal history without asking me first, but you're my mate, and you've always been a nosy bugger, so I forgive you."

Lestrade visibly relaxed, until John stood up, drawing himself up to his full height with his head held high. Extending a hand, he raised his eyebrows by a fraction.

"Show me what he sent you."

Even Sherlock shivered. John had slipped intuitively back into his leadership role, issuing an order to a man a decade his senior without batting an eyelid. Greg complied instantly, handing the file over with downcast eyes.

Leafing though the file, John stopped at the last page and chuckled. "Ah, I remember Macky Page. He was a poker demon back in the day-he was the only one who could ever beat me. Bastard's still got my watch, actually. You notice anything missing from this?"

"Funny you should say that. The last bit stops halfway through..."

John's mouth twisted into a grim smile. "He's left out the last page of my George Cross citation-the bit where I got shot. Good, that."

Sherlock smirked, though his brow creased at the shadow crossing John's features. Barely a second later, his face was back in its usual affable expression.

"So, come on then. You're dying to ask me about these citations, aren't you? The papers he's sent you only have the official version."

Greg sighed, defeated. "Start with the commendations?"

John's face softened in reminiscence, though his eyes bored into the wall behind the inspector's head as he glazed over and he began to speak in a faraway voice.

The heat of the place was still overwhelming, and the stench of cow dung was enough to make his eyes water as he rounded the corner into the market. Macaulay had motioned for him to follow as B-unit went out on patrol , knowing that John hadn't yet gone outside the Green Zone as part of a recce team. He'd only landed in Afghanistan three months before, a green young officer cadet of twenty-seven fresh from the cold and stately marble of Sandhurst. A trickle of sweat ran down his back, prickly and insidious, as he gazed wide-eyed at the chaotic sprawl of central Kandahar. Suddenly a shout rent the air.

"Man be doktor niaz daram!"-"I need a doctor!"

Turning to face the veiled woman in the traditional blue burqa, Cal started at the sight of the baby bundled in the woman's shaking arms.

"Medic! Cadet, come and help her!"

Ignoring the cold feeling of dread that had started at his toes and crept upwards, John jogged over, proffering his medical bag for Cal to hold. He'd very quickly become one of the battalion's go-to medics, known for his quick thinking, skill, and impeccable intuition. Just as Cal turned to take the baby from the mum, John noticed the single wire, tracing down underneath the burqa.

"Sir, it's a bomb. It's not a baby, it's fucking plastic explosive! GET DOWN. EVERYBODY, GET DOWN!", he roared, just as the woman pressed down on something hidden in her palm. They had managed to run about five metres (and he was pleased to see that everyone around them had found shelter), when the bright heat of flame seared its way across the square.

Throwing himself across the Captain and deflecting the worst of the debris with the Kevlar on his back, John crashed to the ground, getting a mouthful of desert for his trouble. With one deft movement, Cal rolled out from underneath him. John sprawled heavily onto his back, before pitching over on to all fours to try and retrieve his kit to treat the wounded. Blinking up confused at the blackened sky, he tried to work out how he'd ended up back on the floor. Cal's face appeared above his own, and by the contorted expression on it he was yelling. He began to shake John's shoulders, and John could just make out that he was being told, "Stay awake, Cadet! S...with me!" He heard a faint cry of "MEDIC!", then closed his eyes. Just for...a second...

He was in the back of a Warrior, that much he could tell. He was on a stretcher with his fellow medics all around him, each pothole juddering his aching bones. Bill Murray, a couple of years his senior and already a Lieutenant, was bending over him, gently wiping something from his face. His eyes flickered open, and he was briefly concerned by the muffled quality of the sound around him before sleep took him in again.

Later the same day, John's eyes flickered again as he stirred, letting out a small and economical groan of pain. "Back with us then, Officer Cadet Watson? Ye had me worried fer a bit there. Can you hear me, John? Do you understand? Nod if you understand."

John nodded at Bill, relieved to find that everything was a damn sight less quiet than it had been during the transport. "So come on then, doctor. Will I live to fight another day?" He put on his best puppy-dog eyes, dramatically sighing and raising the back of his hand to his brow. Bill chuckled. "I should say so, mate. Nasty concussion, a burst eardrum, minor burns and a nice wee shrapnel wound to the right hand side of your back."

His expression turned deadly serious as he perched beside his colleague on the bed. "You were really lucky, John. A metre further back and you'd have lost a leg, or your hearing. You were out for the best part of six hours. You've only been here what, three months?" John nodded, not quite sure where this was going.

"That's an uncommon reaction for a newbie. Wouldna be surprised if there's a commendation in it for ye."

"A commendation? For what? Noticing a suicide bomber when it's part of officer training ABCs?"

Bill sighed.

"Bravery, John. Actions above and beyond the call of duty."

John snorted. "Any one of us would have done it. I'm nothing special. Never have been, never will be."

Murray's face hardened as John yawned, seemingly oblivious to the drop in temperature in the Majors bay.

"Get some rest, eh? You'll need to be up bright and early for the Brigadier's ward rounds..."

Smiling as John snuggled down under the blanket looking impossibly young, Bill detected movement at the double doors out of the corner of his eye. Standing up and brushing off his trouser legs, he crossed the bay and smoothly pushed them open. Captain Macaulay stood, legs akimbo, watching intently as Watson settled down to sleep. Each saluted, and they turned to one another.

"Did you tell him?"

Bill nodded a yes.

"And what was his reaction to the possibility of a commendation?"

"Doesn't think he deserves it, sir."

"Ah, well then. We'll have to make sure he gets one. Humility is wasted on cadets. We'll have him leading soon, if we play our cards right."

John, of course, heard none of this. He was far gone, under the dual aegis of exhaustion and analgesics. When he woke up the next morning, a slip of paper was beside his bed 'requesting' his presence in front of the battalion commander in the next few days.

"So lemme get this straight. This 'act of bravery beyond the call of duty', which 'in so doing, saved the lives of his CO and thirteen Afghani civilians' was the first time you'd been out on patrol? Bloody Hell. There's observant and there's observant!"

Lestrade whistled through his teeth as Sherlock turned to John, one corner of his mouth lifting up in the smirk that said 'Excellent: more data!'. John merely rolled his eyes. Indicating the inky sky outside the office, he opined, "Well, it's late. We'd best be going, eh Sherlock?"

Nodding, Sherlock stood as Captain Watson swept out, leaving Greg and the detective discomfited in his wake.

A/N II: John's temporary hearing loss is understandable given his proximity to the bomb; I can still remember a BBC correspondent called John Simpson, being recorded in the middle of a friendly fire incident in Iraq and saying that his hearing had gone, so I've based the resulting awfulness on that. The 'humility is wasted on cadets' line is a take-off of the old saying that 'wisdom is wasted on the young'. I put Bill in because I enjoyed writing him, and I think he'll become very important to John over his service. I've put him in Afghanistan because Iraq wouldn't have started as a conflict until 2003, when John would have been in the army for the best part of three years.