It was a normal, quiet Saturday morning at 221b Baker Street. Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, fully immersed in his latest experiment and absentmindedly sipping at the cup of Yorkshire tea his flat mate had just shoved in front of him.

John, clutching a cup of tea of his own and a plate with scrambled eggs and toast, walked over to the living room, taking a seat on the sofa and flipped open The Guardian. Both men were enjoying the peace and quiet that had descended upon their lodgings.

They had completed their latest case the previous day, both gotten a decent night’s sleep and for once they had no injuries to treat. Considering how battered they usually ended up after cases, this was a bit of an oddity.

“Hoo-hoo!” Mrs. Hudson called into the flat before stepping into the living room.

“Morning boys.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson” John replied for both of them. “I was making scones this morning and must have gotten the recipe wrong. I made way too many, so I thought I’d bring some up for you” she said and put a plate full of freshly-baked scones down on the table in front of John.

“Mrs. Hudson, you’re a saint!” Even though both John and Sherlock knew it was a white lie and that she had intended to bake for them all along, they were both utterly grateful and played along.  Smelling the baked goods, even Sherlock abandoned his experiment and joined John and their landlady in the main room.

John got up, poured an extra cup of tea for Mrs. Hudson, took a pot of clotted cream and some jam out of the fridge and decided not to tell Mrs. Hudson what exactly had been stored next to the cream. It’d be better if she didn’t know.

Munching their scones in blissful silence, John was flipping through the newspaper. Almost imperceptibly, he tensed, adjusted his sitting position and started reading a feature in earnest.

While Mrs. Hudson thought he’d merely shifted to amore comfortable position on the sofa next to her, Sherlock did notice the minute changes in John’s demeanor. Glancing over at his best friend, Sherlock saw his eyes flickering across the page, shoulders drawn back slightly, legs slightly apart. The stance was that of a soldier, sitting down, but fully alert and at attention.

Every few paragraphs, John’s eyebrows would rise a little. Sherlock didn’t want to ask but he’d have to skim-read the paper later to satisfy his curiosity and find out what had caught John’s attention like that.

Judging by the adopted soldier’s stance, the detective deduced it had something to do with Afghanistan.

After breakfast, John excused himself and went up to his room where he stayed for more than an hour while Sherlock resumed his experiment, and later went to pick up the violin. But before be brought the instrument up to his chin, his eyes landed on the neatly folded Guardian John had been perusing earlier.

He flicked it open and didn’t have to search for long. A feature about a government cover-up, hostage situation and multiple injuries leapt out at Sherlock from pages six and seven. The feature was accompanied by photos of British soldiers (judging by the uniforms), though their faces had been pixilated, awaiting formal identification.

The article stated that in 2009, a British unit had been ambushed and taken hostage by the Taliban somewhere in the far reaches of Helmand Province. When this unit failed to make contact with base, a tactical team and a medic had been sent after them. The report went on that this tactical team was overpowered as well, and the soldiers taken hostage.

Ransom demands had been sent out and the release of captured insurgents requested in exchange for the men’s lives. When none of the demands were met, the captors sent one of the British soldiers back in a body bag. A week later, another British soldier died as an apparent suicide bomber after he’d been sent into the local town’s square, strapped to a bomb vest.

A raid was ordered on the compound the troops were being held prisoner at. A firefight ensued, the insurgents were killed or captured. Eyewitness accounts suggested that one of the soldiers took charge of all the prisoners and organised them so that they could be as effective as possible during the siege. The same man, it was alleged, suffered severe wounds while protecting his unit, trying to get all the injured soldiers out of the line of fire during the stand-off. The identity of the man remained a mystery, but the eyewitnesses concurred that he was a hero and deserved to be recognised as such. According to all accounts, he had single-handedly saved the lives of all remaining prisoners and suffered greatly for his act of bravery.

Sherlock sat back deep into the sofa. ‘2009’ he thought. ‘That’s when John was serving in Afghanistan. Maybe he had heard about this? Maybe he knew some of them or treated the prisoners at the field hospital he was stationed at. I need to find out.’

Behind him, Sherlock could hear John’s footsteps coming down the stairs to the living room. Sherlock looked up and saw that John had gotten changed. Where he had been sporting his favourite worn pair of jeans and the beige jumper he seemed so fond of, he had now changed into a dark pair of jeans, a plaid shirt and a dark blue cardigan and his brown leather shoes.

Sherlock took it all in in one look, one eyebrow slightly raised. John cleared his throat. “I’m going out for a bit, Sherlock. I’ll grab us some take-away for later. Anything else we need, text me, ok? I can go past the shops.”

“Fine.”

With that, John grabbed his coat and bounded down the seventeen stairs.

In one swift motion, Sherlock was back on his feet, in front of the large window, violin and bow in hand. Just as he was about to play, he caught a glimpse of John as he walked out the front door. He was greeted by an imposing-looking man. John saluted and sprang to attention. The man returned the salute and motioned for John to follow him. ‘Military training’ Sherlock thought, amused by how easily and seamlessly John had snapped to attention. ‘Once a soldier, always a soldier.’ The detective had no doubt left that John was involved in the news story in one way or another. He’d have to ask John more about it tonight.

Sherlock turned back towards the window and the melody of God Save The Queen soon wafted through the air at Baker Street.

~~~~~

Across London, Mycroft Holmes had been called into a secret Whitehall meeting. He knew it was about the Afghanistan story that had appeared today. He had already secured the so-called proof the Guardian had cited as its source for the story.

Although there had clearly been a government cover-up, Mycroft himself had not worked on this issue in 2009. He’d been responsible for Korea at the time. His superiors demanded answers as to what had happened and who had been involved. The agent who had dealt with the issue originally had been assassinated in 2011, so the task of establishing timeline, identification, protocol and verification of authenticity had been transferred to the older Holmes brother.

His assistant known as Anthea to the outside world had handed him a DVD just before he’d been called to the meeting and Mycroft disliked not being able to review the information beforehand. In this matter though, he didn’t have much choice, so he asked Anthea to run facial recognition against the video from Afghanistan and contact him via her trusted BlackBerry once she had more information.

The impeccably dressed man didn’t outwardly show his nervousness to anyone. Anthea could tell her boss was anxious, though. She quickly squeezed his hand once. Mycroft inhaled deeply, pushed open the heavy wooden doors and entered the lion’s den.

~~~~~~

When John stepped out of 221b Baker Street, he wasn’t at all surprised to find his old commanding officer, Colonel Evans waiting for him. In fact, in light of the story he just read, he had expected it and had wisely changed into more suitable civilian clothes than the comfortable ones he’d been wearing earlier this morning.

As soon as he spotted his CO, Captain Watson snapped to attention, saluting as if the last three years of his life as a civilian GP and blogger had never happened.

“Captain Watson! So good to see you again. At ease!” Colonel Evans beamed. “May I have a word with you? I trust you know what this is about?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Walk with me” Evans said and started making his way down Baker Street. John fell into step by his side. “Of course you were debriefed at the time. I’ve known you long enough to trust that you didn’t leak this to the press.”

“Yes, sir. Debriefed as soon as my condition was stable. I’ve not told a soul about this. What would I have to gain? I just don’t understand where those pictures came from, sir. It’s definitely us, it’s definitely the compound but none of my men were carrying Audio/Visual equipment.”

“That’s what I thought, Watson. And believe me, we, the entire British Army, are grateful for everything you and your unit did. I just regret that given the diplomatic red tape we’ve never been able to effectively show our appreciation and gratitude”, Evans said and stopped, fixing his gaze and the pavement at his feet, John tensed a bit. Of course he understood that it would have created a major incident, had the truth been found out at the time. The army was trying to save face. But John couldn’t help but thinking that a little appreciation would have gone a long way.

While they all had recovered from their injuries, all but two were invalided home like him. They had all wound up in depressing little bedsits provided by the MoD, but thinking back to his life in London before Baker Street, John didn’t think it had been worth all he and his unit had been through. But that is life in the army for you, and John knew what he signed up for. He straightened up and looked at his CO. That easy smile he was known for on his face, an unassuming, almost apologetic look. “For Queen and Country, sir, above all else. There’s a reason the RAMC’s motto is In Arduis Fidelis”, John acknowledged. “Faithful in adversity. How true, Captain.” With that, they walked side by side in silence for a few minutes. Both men had their hands clasped together behind their backs, like they were on a leisurely stroll through Hyde Park.

Eventually, they reached a little pub called The Gunmaker. “Well, Captain Watson, I’m not sure what the MoD or the British Army will or will not do in light of this article. I hope they’ll do the right thing, the decent thing and own up, finally showing respect where respect is due.”

“That’s very kind, sir. I’d like to see my unit honoured for the way they dealt with their ordeal. You know me, I don’t like fame and I wouldn’t want anything for myself. We did our duty, followed our training. But it shattered our careers in Her Majesty’s service. If there is any way I can help secure treatment or housing or anything to set them up properly for civilian life, I’m happy to do what it takes. They are good men and women, trusted friends and colleagues.”

“That they are indeed”, Evans agreed, still a bit perplexed by John’s humility although he’s never seen John ask for anything for himself in all the years they’d served together. “Well, I don’t know what official course of action will be taken, but I insist that you at least let me buy you lunch and a pint, for old time’s sake if nothing else and a little towards showing my appreciation. And you can tell me all about your life here and any news you might have of your unit.”

“Oh, I’m sure I can be persuaded, sir. But this, as you can imagine, is my local pub. I go by Doctor Watson here, or even John. I left Captain Watson behind… that day. No disrespect, sir.”

“OK, then, Doctor Watson. What will you have?”

John smiled and placed his order. They talked for close to two hours, about deployments, mutual colleagues and news they had picked up. “Corporal Montgomery is on home leave now, I’ve heard. She’s pregnant! And Connerty got married last year”, Colonel Evans said halfway through his second pint. “Bastion is still the same, a few more barracks, maybe, but the place is still as big, red and sandy as ever. Field hospital’s gone a bit downhill, though. You’re a damn good doctor and a fine soldier!”

“Was…” John corrected.

“Still a bloody good doctor, though.”

“Well, I’m a locum GP, a far cry from what I used to be.”

“I read all about your crime-solving in the papers, though. With that Sherlock Holmes guy.”

“Oh yeah, that’s rather fun! Sherlock’s the one solving most of the crimes, though. I just write them up and see to it that the git doesn’t get himself into too much trouble. Between that and my locum work, I usually have quite a tight schedule.”

The Colonel listened intently, as John told him all about their adrenaline-fuelled cases. He forgot to talk about his locum work at all.

Mycroft and his superiors were still watching the DVD Anthea had procured. For the most part the picture was shaky and grainy. So far, they had established that a unit of six soldiers from 4^th Battalion The Rifles had failed to make contact while clearing a stretch of highway in a mountainous region of Helmand Province. They had been tasked with securing the road and clearing IEDs. Two days later, a unit of six from 5^th Northumberland Fusiliers, a medically trained officer, two bomb disposal experts and two snipers were sent after 4^th Battalion. One of the soldiers from 5^th Northumberland Fusiliers was wearing hidden GPS equipment. They had been captured by the Taliban and taken to a compound known to be a Taliban stronghold. That’s where the GPS tracker remained.

From the thick files on the mahogany table in front of them, the men at Whitehall learned that the captain in charge of 4^th Battalion was killed after a ransom demand had not been met. He’d been executed and sent back to Camp Bastion in a body bag. On the body, a note had been found. It read: “5 Rifs, 6 Fus, 1 Doc, 2 bombs, 2 snips. Alive + well. 20 in den + 2 birds in nest, armed. Road = mountain tunnels. SOS.”

The note had confirmed what the commanders at Camp Bastion were suspecting. All but the Rifles’ captain were alive. The road from which the soldiers had been taken hostage was served by tunnels hidden in the mountains alongside it. Twenty insurgents on the ground, two snipers located higher up within the compound. All armed to the teeth. The soldiers requested back up to get to freedom. It had been a short note, but it had provided all the necessary info about the size of the enemy, locations and state of the prisoners’ welfare.

More ransom demands had been made, the release of captured insurgents requested. None of the demands were met, due to the British government’s stance on negotiations with terrorists. Within the week, the captain in charge of 5^th Northumberland Fusiliers had been strapped to a bomb vest and sent into the local town’s square. When he had reached the centre of the square, the bomb had detonated. A video had been sent by the Taliban claiming that another two soldiers would die every week until they were either all dead or the demands had been met.

The government’s stance did not change.

A rescue operation was mounted, but the public had not been informed. If the men were killed, the public would be told that they had died in an explosion as their trucks hit IEDs. A corresponding press release had already been drafted. After all, the media would print the official story no questions asked seeing as they weren’t over there, on the ground, in Afghanistan, but instead relying on official statements concerning the war effort.

The British population would never know that the lives of fifteen British soldiers were deemed unimportant in the greater scheme of things; that the lives of fifteen hard-working men and women of the British Army were not worth the exchange of ten insurgents, not even worth negotiations for their own release.

Three days after the captain died as an apparent suicide bomber, the MoD orchestrated a rescue mission. One of the team members had been instructed to wear a helmet camera to gain an insight into the compound. Far off, explosions could be heard. They were deliberate missile hits just outside the far end of the complex, in order to provide a distraction so the rescue team could get in unnoticed.

They had approached via the tunnels which led straight into the complex. The tip-off about the tunnels’ existence proved to be invaluable. As the rescue team descended into the compound, mission control was set up at the entrance, just outside the line of sight of the enemy.

Upon storming the compound, the rescue team encountered that the two army units had joined forces under the command of one of the remaining captains, who had taken charge of the situation. All of them had been able to sneak weapons away and conceal them on their persons. They had quietly studied their captors’ movements, knew the guard changes, knew some of their weaknesses and knew where the ammunition was kept. They’d been playing the waiting game. They were ready.

“You here for us? About bloody time!” a hoarse voice hissed close to the camera. The tunnel ended in a basement room of the building next to the temporary prison the soldiers had been kept in. The video showed several soldiers, who, although they looked a bit haggard, dehydrated and some of them bruised, all seemed to be in good spirits.

“Got any flash bangs by any chance? We want to get them all in the yard. Surprise them with these fresh ‘reinforcements’. They won’t know what hit them! Fifteen are in the building opposite, five on the floor above us and two across the yard in the tower.” A young man, Lance Corporal judging by the uniform, brought the newcomers up to speed. A lieutenant cut in “The doc is keeping the medical kit, anyone gets hurt, holler for the doc. He’s kept an extra kit by the door. If you brought a medi-kit with you, leave it with the rest, he’ll be grateful.” The response team nodded their understanding.

They handed out all the flash bangs and extra weaponry they brought with them. The camera trained on a figure crouching by the doorway. The uniform said captain and all eyes were trained on him. He held up his hand to signal for quiet, glanced left and right around the door again, nodded and gave the signal to attack.

And then all hell broke lose.

For a minute, the video only showed grey smoke and red sand. Voices that were distorted by white noise were shouting, gunshots rang out. The two army snipers had spent their time watching the insurgents and knew exactly where the Taliban sniper nest was. They trained their sights on the tower that looked a lot like a minaret and squeezed off four rounds. There was no return fire from the nest. Once the smoke cleared, the insurgents stormed. Their attack was uncoordinated at best, and they were blindly shooting into the prison building. The insurgents were caught by surprise when they encountered the extra manpower and the ground was stained with blood soon after. The lieutenant was the first of the British soldiers to go down. His scream pierced the air as he took a bullet to the leg. The doctor immediately snapped his head around. Clenching his own gun and squeezing off two shots which killed two insurgents, he crouched down and made his way to the soldier on the ground. Completely trusting his comrades to have his back, he went to work wrapping the wound and then dragging the lieutenant towards the entrance of the tunnels.

Two rescue team members had been instructed to stay there, assist with field triage and get the wounded to safety. Within moments, the doctor emerged again to join the fight, but a grenade thrown by one of the insurgents on the upper floor sent the military men flying.

The medic was the first one back on his feet and once again didn’t waste time to get straight to work. “Med-kit!! Someone get me more kit!” the doc yelled over the gunfight. There really was a lot of blood but too many people still lay bleeding and dazed on the floor, too close together to clearly determine where one blood pool started and another stopped.

Unfazed, the doc worked tirelessly while bullets kept flying by. Pressing down on wounds and bandaging them as good as possible, dragging his colleagues to safety. More shots rang out and instead of stopping, the doc just crouched down further, kept steady pressure on the wound he was trying to staunch and shielded the soldier he was working on with his own body.

Another grenade was thrown and one of the female Lance Corporals collapsed, bleeding profusely from her leg. The doc was instantly at her side. “Secure the yard! Get my men out!! Where the hell is the chopper? Please tell me there’s a medevac on its way!! We need to get everyone to the closest field hospital. NOW!!!”

“Chopper ETA five minutes, sir!”

“Corporal Adams, secure the upstairs. Make sure we got them all, no more nasty surprises!” The corporal nodded and could be seen hurrying away. “Someone, get one of the spare medical kits. Start applying pressure to the wounds. Mercer, Eaton, move it!!” The screen was a flurry of activity, the tone of voice the doctor had used brook no arguments and was instantly obeyed.

The soldier with the helmet camera was kneeling in the yard, clearly helping an injured colleague. At the edges of the picture, which was focused on a rather nasty wound to the right side of a chest, the doctor could be seen dashing from casualty to casualty, quickly assessing, helping, moving on. Despite the clipped tone he’d used and the threat they were still under, the doctor examined his fellow brothers in arms with practiced calm and efficiency. While working as fast as he could, he still took time to assess each wound properly, speaking soothingly to the wounded and his steady hands ghosting over flesh and blood.

From far off, the whirr of an approaching helicopter could be heard, and there was a sigh of relief from the cameraman once it came into view. It was touching down in the yard when Corporal Adams called out “All clear!”

Those who could still move of their own accord started dragging and carrying their friends to the chopper and continued to provide first aid. The medic knelt next to a still body. The soldier was barely breathing. “This one needs to get to the chopper, stat!” He got up and clutched his gun as he looked around the yard, tense and on full alert.

Dismissing the feeling because they’d been declared all clear, he started to walk over to the female officer lying near one of the buildings. Time seemed to stand still as a single shot rang out across the yard. Instead of diving for cover, the medic instinctively lunged himself forwards and threw himself across the female soldier to protect her from further harm. One of the insurgent snipers in the minaret must have survived. Ten army guns immediately trained on him and returned fire. The doctor gave one blood-curling scream of pain – and didn’t get back up.

“Shit!! Doc!! Captain!! Talk, damn it! Come on, sir!” The cries of his men were frantic. Someone rolled the doc over and checked for a pulse. “He’s alive! Move, move, move!!”

Only now did the unit realize that their doctor was bleeding profusely from his shoulder and chest. His trouser legs were smeared with blood. His arm was almost definitely broken, sticking out at a weird angle from when he had thrown himself over his colleagues over and over again to protect them. The man with the camera took a closer look, the picture still grainy and blurry thanks to sand and dust, but for the first time the face of the man in charge was revealed.

Mycroft Holmes’ jaw dropped and he raised one of his eyebrows ever so slightly.

Sherlock had behaved himself while John was away with his army buddy. Only one experiment had leaked onto the kitchen floor and he’d actually remembered to put a wash on. John came back to Baker Street after a late lunch and went straight to the bathroom, rummaging through the cabinet under the sink.

“Is there anything in particular you are looking for?” Sherlock asked behind him. It startled John so much that he banged his head on the sink above him with a resounding ‘clang’. “Black shoe polish”, he groaned, rubbing the rapidly forming bump at the rear of his head.

“Here, use mine” Sherlock said, went through to his bedroom and returned seconds later with a brand new tube of polish. “You do realize that your shoes are brown, though, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know, you dip stick! I’ve got more than the one pair, you know?”

“Just checking.”

He handed John the shoe polish, who took it and went upstairs to his room. A few minutes later, John returned holding an old shoe box and sat down at the coffee table. Sherlock watched him out of the corner of his eye. Gingerly, John placed the shoe box on the table, like putting down a treasure. He carefully lifted the lid to reveal a maroon-coloured cloth.

Unfolding the cloth, he revealed a black military-issue dress shoe underneath. With the same care John usually reserved for tending to patients’ wounds and cleaning his Browning, he picked the first shoe up and examined it in the light, before picking up the polish and a brush. As he began cleaning the leather, John’s movements were practiced and precise and he went about the task in hand as if he was in trance. Cleaning kit and shoes had been ingrained into his muscle memory, the movements coming to him without much conscious thought.

Sherlock meanwhile had resumed playing the violin. First a piece by Bach that John vaguely recognised, then one of his own compositions and then he launched into a stylized and adapted version of “Here’s a Health unto his Majesty”, the RAMC quick march John was all too familiar with. Recognising the tune, John snapped out of his reverie and shot a sideways look at his flat mate.

“Why are you playing this particular march, Sherlock?”

“Why not? It’s the quick march of the Royal Army Medical Corps, is it not?”

“I bloody well know what it is. I had to march to this on parade plenty of times. The question remains: why are you playing it?”

“I just thought it was fitting somehow. You, polishing the shoes of your parade uniform on a day on which a major news story about Afghanistan breaks, a story from 2009 and which you are somehow involved in – don’t give me that look, that part was easy to work out by your behaviour - it can’t be a coincidence. I thought, given all I know about your time in Afghanistan, the RAMC march would be something you’re familiar with. I’ll play something else if it bothers you that much.”

“It doesn’t bother me as such, I’ve just not heard it in a while. It brings back memories, a lot of which I’d rather forget….”

“You were there though, weren’t you? You were involved in this hostage / government cover up situation somehow. You would have denied it, if you had no knowledge of it.”

John put down his shoe. By now it was shining so much; John could see his own reflection in it.

“Oh hell, what’s the point denying it? You’re right. I was there in 2009 and involved in this. You would have deduced as much anyway.” Sherlock nodded. “But it was all kept secret and I can’t talk about it.”

“Why not? It’s out in the open now.”

“That doesn’t matter, Sherlock. Until the army or MoD releases an official statement, there’s nothing I can say or do. And even then, depending in the statement, I might still not be able to disclose in how far I am connected to this. Just leave it for now, please.”

“Fine. But don’t think this conversation is over, John.”

More in an attempt to escape the interrogation than anything else, John got up, stretched and walked over to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He fixed two mugs of tea on auto-pilot and dodged one of Sherlock’s experiments. Lost in his thoughts, John nearly jumped and knocked over the beaker containing god-knows-what when the kettle started to whistle.

Sherlock, Mr. Observation that he is, noticed.

“John, are you sure you’re alright? You’re jumpy, jumpier than usual and you’re easily distracted, both not attributes I’d usually associate with you. I do actually have a very high security clearance, courtesy of my brother. I’m sure he’d confirm it for you if you wanted to check. Either way, you should know I’d not tell anyone, or don’t you trust me? The story clearly affected you. You’re polishing your uniform shoes. I bet it’s because one way or another there’ll be some sort of public display in which you might be required to partake, wearing your parade uniform. You’re anxious because of it, but ever the soldier, you want to be prepared.”

“To be honest, Sherlock, I’m not alright.” John handed the detective his mug, who just put it on the counter behind him and grabbed John by the shoulders and looked his friend in the eye. John steadied himself under the scrutiny.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you or your discretion, Sherlock. But I’m under orders. Until I get the go-ahead, I cannot talk about this. I’ve never spoken to anyone about it all. But the article brings back memories, most of them painful. And I think I should warn you: I will most definitely have nightmares tonight. So you might want to invest in some ohropax. Whatever you do, don’t hold me down in order to wake me up. You might end up with a bloody nose and you wouldn’t be the first. And you’re right. I am anxious. This could be a big thing if properly acknowledged. I’m not holding my breath, though. It all got swept under the carpet in 2009 and everyone who had anything to do with this got told what to expect. Cleaning my shoes… well it’s kinda therapeutic. It’s like cleaning my gun, something we did in the barracks to take our minds off things. I realized it’s been a long time since my dress shoes saw sunlight, so I thought, why not? It gives me something to do, you know?”

John looked down. Sherlock could tell he was clearly troubled and would have loved to talk in confidence with a friend but couldn’t. Sherlock would have to go back to the article again, read between the lines and factor in John’s body language.

John took a sip of his tea, wrapping both hands around the steaming mug, interlacing his fingers and soaking up the warmth it gave off even though it was a warm and clear spring day outside. With a sigh, John walked back over to the sofa and started working on his other shoe. Sherlock sipped his tea and made a decision. As much as he hated it, he would have to ask for help. The detective pulled out his mobile phone and typed in a familiar number.

“I NEED TO SEE JOHN’S ARMY FILE. – SH”

A few minutes later, his mobile chirped.

“I’LL BE OVER LATER. NEED TO TALK. – MH

Sherlock frowned. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. And worst of all, he’d have to deal with Mycroft face to face. Way to ruin a Saturday!

John, sitting on the couch, made fast and efficient progress, his shoe-shining skills honed by years of practice. Sherlock sat down at his computer. If John and Mycroft couldn’t provide the answers he craved, maybe the internet could. He started by typing “Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers”, the regiment mentioned when John had been introduced at Buckingham Palace for that Woman case, into the search bar. A page loaded, he leaned back and started reading.

~~~~~~

In Whitehall, Mycroft and his peers were just discussing what had happened to the soldiers in the video after the shoot-out. Their medical files were extensive. The female officer had suffered severe blood loss and her leg had to be amputated from the knee due to the damage received. But experts agreed that if the medic hadn’t gotten to her when he did, she could have bled out or needed the whole leg to be taken off.

Several of the others suffered leg, arm and shoulder wounds. All of them were wrapped immediately and none of the soldiers caught any infections. While two more soldiers had to have limbs amputated, the quick thinking and action on the doctor’s part meant they survived. One soldier, who had taken a bullet to the back, was paralysed. He had been lying out in the open yard when the doctor had dashed out and grabbed him and dragged him to safety. The jerk of the movement had further damaged the spinal cord and one of the bosses was quick to blame the medic for the soldier’s predicament. But the soldier would have been an easy target and would have almost certainly been killed. As it was, everyone who had been at the siege had survived. And in no small part was this down to the repeated self-sacrifice of the medic, who put himself between the bullets and his patients.

Two of the soldiers were still on active duty, serving in Afghanistan. The rest had been honourably discharged and invalided home or had requested transfers to desk duty on UK soil.  A handful of them, mainly members of the rescue team, had escaped with mere scratches. But the doctor himself was another matter. After saving fourteen people, the medic was the one who came closest to dying. And it was a very close call. Only when he had been rolled off the female officer did all his injuries become apparent. His whole left shoulder was destroyed, the bullet was a through and through that had entered from the back, through the joint and exited at the front at and angle, just above his heart.

He’d broken his right arm as he dove to the ground protecting one of his fellow men. A bullet had hit his thigh and the right side of his face had blistered when the grenade had gone off not far from him. Out of all of them, he came closest to bleeding out, there, at the old, disused mosque that had been converted into a Taliban base. Nobody had noticed how severely he was injured because he kept moving quickly and confidently while the adrenaline was pumping through his veins. He was unconscious by the time his unit got him into the medevac chopper. With none of the other soldiers on the ground being a medic, they tried to stop the blood flow from the shoulder with rags. The doctor himself had used up all the clean bandages tending to their injuries first. By the time he reached the hospital at Camp Bastion, the doctor wasn’t breathing. While the base staff managed to resuscitate him, he slipped into a coma after surgery. His shoulder had to be reconstructed, which caused his mobility to lessen.

The doctor developed enteric fever because the rags that had been used to save his life and dam the blood flow had been dirty and contaminated. Only six weeks after the rescue had the doctor pulled through for good; for the first three weeks it was pretty much touch and go. Once he was awake and fit to travel, he was invalided home to the UK. As brave and qualified a man as he was, his shoulder wound meant that his hand shook and his mobility in his left arm, though improved through months and months of physio therapy, would never be back at one hundred percent. His shoulder joint had been destroyed and he would most probably retain a limp from the wound to his leg but worst of all, while he had fought off sepsis and enteric fever, he’d had several seizures. That was what sealed his fate. He would never go back into battle to fight alongside his men. You weren’t fit for duty if you’d suffered seizures. The same applied to him reverting back to being a Medical Officer – he’d be a liability to the army. And just like that, two distinct and distinguished army careers came to an abrupt halt.

Mycroft read out from his file that all invalided personnel who had required it had been given a one room bedsit by the MoD and his predecessor had arranged for them all to receive physio therapy and trauma counselling. After they had been debriefed and told that the British public would not hear of this story, each had been given £500 per month on top of their army pensions to cover their health care.

As far as Mycroft could tell, that was it.

“Are you telling me that we took fifteen war heroes and hid them away in dingy little flats? Did any of them receive any honours for their actions and sacrifices?” Mycroft’s boss asked, his voice incredulous.

“Yes, sir, as far as I am aware from the notes left by my predecessor. He noted that some of them did receive honours for other actions during the Afghan campaign. But none of them received anything but a cold handshake for this situation, pardon me saying.”

“Not even the doctor?”

“Sir, he is already the recipient of the Military Cross for actions he took in 2008 which ensured the survival of his unit. He’s not just a doctor, he is also a commissioned, combatant soldier. That is why he was sent in with the tac team to start with. Some of the others received Distinguished Service Medals, but again, not for this”, Mycroft explained.

“That won’t do. Someone get me the Palace, Downing Street and the Commanders of the British Army on the line for a conference in an hour! I think we should let the public know about the hostage situation, but not mention the ransom demands. Go big on the heroics of everyone involved. Nothing like heroes to boost public morale and the nation’s stance on this war. Although we obviously still need to confirm officially, I think all 15 should be awarded the Military Cross for Gallantry. Make that the Military Cross with one bar for the doctor. But I’ll also need to see whether the medic can be decorated even higher. I’m thinking one of the other crosses for bravery and valor. He not only saved everyone’s lives but as senior captain, he also took charge of 4^th Battalion The Rifles, his own 5^th Northumberland Fusiliers and helped orchestrate the rescue team.”

Everybody present at the meeting nodded in agreement. “Right, then. This shouldn’t be too difficult, especially as we have the proof on DVD.” With that, Mycroft’s boss left the room to prepare for his talk with the Queen, the Prime Minister and the Army Commanders.

Mycroft felt strangely proud, especially given the decorations that were to be discussed. They were well and truly deserved. And from his point, he would see to it that the soldiers’ monthly MoD allowance was increased dramatically.

One and a half hours later, Buckingham Palace, Downing Street, Whitehall and the Army Commanders reached a conclusion. They were sure everyone involved would be satisfied with the outcome.

Mycroft Holmes looked down at the picture of the smiling, unassuming army doctor in front of him. ‘Silent waters do indeed run deep’ he mused as he placed the photo back in its protection and closed the file.

The file of a certain Captain John Hamish Watson, of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.