Thursday morning came and, calling to make sure he was scheduled for the evening shift and that the eight thirty check-up was still planned for that night, John rolled out of bed lazily. Without the adrenaline of the fight, the soles of his feet were much tenderer and he hobbled his way to the bathroom, rubbing the crusty, uneasy sleep from his eyes. Frankly, he was surprised that he hadn't been smothered in his sleep by the consulting detective currently looming in the kitchen with a pinched, sour face.

"Good morning," John muttered, more out of habit than sentiment and, seeing it in his eyes, Sherlock responded in kind.

"'Is the day so young?'"[1] He tossed it over his shoulder, continuing to meddle with something in the sink, and John scowled at the quote.

John groaned. "Oh, Sherlock... not the Shakespeare. It's too early for Shakespeare."

"'Is't possible?'"[2] John fumed, a violent pleasure burning in his gut at the sight of the line of stitches running across his flatmate's palm, but said nothing. "'Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer/ The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,/ Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,' it is always the time for Shakespeare."[3] Throwing up his hands, John stomped across the flat and got himself dressed. The hot water for his shower was spotty –Sherlock kept using it- and by the time John was done, he was sure he had bruises and burns across his back.

"I'm going out." John grunted, pulling on a coat. "And the clinic needs me tonight, so don't bother with me."

"'O farewell, honest soldier,'"[4]

"Bugger off."

"Did you see John's face?" Lestrade glanced over at his fellow officers, watching some of the other officers enjoy Anderson's retelling of their call to 221B Baker Street. The investigator was, not surprisingly, beaming for his audience. "He would have killed Sherlock if I hadn't stepped in!"

"Not like Sally or the DI did anything, eh?" Called a younger man, grinning widely. "If the two of them were so ready for a brawl, how come you aren't all beat up, Phil?"

"He looked after John." Lestrade explained, approaching the group with a wry grin. "It took Donovan and I to handle Sherlock" –The precinct erupted into catcalls and cheers of 'YEAH SALLY!'- "and once John calmed down, Anderson came and helped us."

"Once the situation was under control." John couldn't resist the jab and, waving away his guide, the doctor approached the DI calmly. "I'm sorry about last night, but thanks for coming out, Greg."

"Looking rough, Watson!" Donovan grinned as the other officers looked on, eager to witness the doctor's wild side for themselves. And, to be fair, he did look pretty rough.

With black under each eye and a bit of white tape across the bridge of his nose, John looked like a bad bar fighter. His lip was split and swollen and, just above his waistband, his back was littered with bruises where he had been thrown into the edges of solid furniture. He was sore, and a little grumpy, and John just wanted to sleep the day away.

"Thank you, Agent Donovan," John's smile was icy, but appropriate. "I didn't notice. I'll get right on it."

"Easy, John," Lestrade tentatively touched his shoulder, careful of his bruises. "She's just playing." He watched the doctor carefully, his back stiff, in case the policewoman set him off.

"It's fine," John waved the DI away, smiling until his lip stung. "I know. I can take a joke."

"What brought it all on?" Anderson prompted, "Why were you two going at it?!"

"..." John needed a minute to formulate a proper explanation. "I... Sherlock has been difficult lately, and last night we just lost it. He was getting on my last good nerve, and when he grabbed me it snapped."

"Don't mess with Doc Watson." The officers broke into a fit of laughter, the speaker frankly apparent when his coworkers patted him on the back, and John couldn't resist approaching him.

"What's your name?"

Turning, the officer fell silent and a few of them even left, making a bullshit excuse to get out of his way. The young man's smile dropped and, with an audible gulp, he said: "Jason Haefling, sir." His posture correct as John watched, pushing his shoulders back and his chest forward, and the doctor smirked as his authority influenced the younger man even after his return from service.

"You remind me of a young man in my barracks. American-born, but a damn good shot." He could picture the this officer in fatigues, his anxiety due to the silent ride through the desert and the heavy rifle in his hands instead of an old army doctor staring him down. John frowned, "To be honest, I don't remember what happened to him... not at all." He sighed heavily and shook his head. "Don't join the army, Jason."

To his surprise, the police officer looked horrified. He lost the anxiety and his posture relaxed considerably. "Weren't you in His Majesty's service?" He scrutinized John harshly. "How can you tell me not to join the military if you were in the military?"

"Because I was attached to a unit in Kandahar for my term in Afghanistan." John explained resolutely. "I am –was?- a soldier, Jason. Captain John H. Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I fought in Afghanistan, and I was shot in Afghanistan, and I am telling you, Jason, don't." He watched the young man's face screw up, his mind fighting to digest the information, and turned to face the DI. "Greg, I should get going. I've got to be at the clinic for a night shift soon."

"Need a lift?" John waved the inspector away and made for the door.

"I'll be fine." John smiled, "Thanks again, Greg."

Lestrade shrugged. "That's my job." And then John was gone. He made it too the clinic in good time for his shift, cleaning up as much as possible before he began seeing patients upon patients until the secretary came in between appointments.

"Doctor Watson? You have a patient asking for you and-"

John nodded distractedly, finishing filling out a form. "Send them in." The older man sitting on the examination table waved at her, earning no response, and was puzzled by the paleness of her usually rosy cheeks.

"Excuse me, sir, but it's supposed to be your eight thirty check-up." The nurse said quietly, and John glanced at her only to stare at the horrified expression she revealed.

"What?" John prompted, "What is it?"

"She looks bad, John," Whimpered the poor, quivering secretary. She had obviously never seen more than some measles. "She looks really, really bad!" She expected some shock, or some confusion, but suddenly John was ordering her to escort the elderly man out and struggling to pull on his white coat. "Sir? I called another doctor to-"

"I'll take her now." John commanded, shoving his paperwork away.

"But what about-" John gave her a look that kicked her into action, despite the man's protests, and he said: "I'm taking her. Now. Escort him out and get me the tools."

Shoving his right arm through his coat sleeve, John hurried to the door and threw it open with authority he rarely used. Striding into the hall, John's hurry made the white coat billow behind him all the way to the lobby. When he caught sight of Moriarty leaning on Moran as the sniper argued with the other physician, John froze and whispered:

"My God..."

[1] Romeo & Juliet (I, i, 160)
[2] Hamlet (II, ii, 358)
[3] Hamlet (III, i, 57-59)
[4] Hamlet (I, i, 17)