A/N: I had a thought whilst pondering one of my other Sherlock fics: what if John had hidden skills that even Sherlock wouldn't have thought to deduce? It turns out that Dr Watson is far more than a blogging, running, sharp-shooting Medical Officer...he's also brilliant with people. Written because Martin Freeman always seems unfailingly courteous in interviews, and I'm convinced that if anyone were ever fortunate enough to meet the character of J.H. Watson, he would be exactly the same.

As they pulled up to the mosque, Lestrade turned to face John and Sherlock in the back seat of the unmarked car. "Okay. This mosque is quite often used by people from the Afghan community, so no inappropriate questions, Sherlock. John, you should be fine, they've got no problem with British soldiers. The last time I was here, Jenkins-you know, the one from 2 Para?-came with me. They couldn't shake his hand quickly enough-lots of them left when things got really bad with the insurgency, because they supported the Northern Alliance when the Taliban was coming back into Mazar-e-Sharif. Least that's what they told me. There's only one person left to speak to who was here at the time of the Cockburn Street murder, so it's her we'll be speaking to."

As they unfolded themselves from the car, Sherlock shared a serious glance with John, letting him know that he was not about to make light of the conflict. John was grateful for that fact as they made their way up the steps to be greeted by a gently smiling man. Seeing Greg and Sherlock looking interestedly at the hat perched atop his head, John leaned in, whispering. "It's called a kirkuli. Means he's an elder in the community, only people that are really respected are given them."

Nodding in acknowledgement, they made their way through to the reception room, John stopping to take off his shoes as he went. Watching him closely, the man spoke in soft, accented English. "You know your customs. Your bearing is very straight-you were a soldier, in the war?"

Looking slightly uncomfortable, John turned to face him. "Yes, I was-a doctor, with a unit based in Kandahar. I've not been in the army for three years now. I was...hurt."

Inclining his head and nodding, the man motioned them through to the main room of the small complex. "My mother, Hajar. I'm afraid she does not speak much English-only Dari. I will translate for you."

Sherlock and Greg both turned their heads sharply to their right as John spoke up yet again. "We should be alright, I think." Smiling softly, he turned to the woman. Placing his right hand above his heart, fingers slightly splayed, he leaned forward, beginning to form words that, although unfamiliar to his friends, were clearly understood by the seated woman. Her face lit up as he began his conversation:

"Salaam aleikum, Hajar. Manda na bashi. Chetor ast e?" He continued to murmur gentle questions, before realising that neither Sherlock nor Greg had interrupted yet.

Noticing his friends gaping at him, John turned his head slightly, a grin forming on his face. "Sherlock...how on Earth did you not deduce that I speak fluent Dari? It comes in really handy when you're running clinics..."

With that, Captain John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers and the Royal Army Medical Corps, turned back to the smiling woman, crouching beside her to hear what she had to say. The elder chuckled, joining in the conversation and translating for the others, as the detective and the inspector took their seats and watched John charm her. Evidently, his care for his patients extended far beyond addressing their ills: he had obviously decided, thought Sherlock, that in order to be holistic, one had to understand the rest of their lives as well.