A Rush of Blood (to My Head and Heart)

Underneath the too big jumpers, John Watson is slightly too thin, like he's been very ill. It's hot in the pub, hot enough to merit taking off the jumper and rolling up his sleeves, a welcome change from the February weather outside.

Greg Lestrade watches as the doctor walks back, orange juice in one hand, cane in the other. He doesn't seem to need it, but he does partially tuck his leg under the table when he sits down with his arm.

"Thanks for inviting me again" he says, looking around at the team. He's sitting next to Hopkins, who's looking out at him from the corner of his eye.

"You're welcome mate" Greg says easily. "Practically an honouree member now." He takes another sip of his own pint, relishing the bitter alcohol over his tongue. It's been one of those weeks, not enough to call in Sherlock, obvious as to whom it is, but the evidence is scatty.

John smiles a smile that makes him suddenly quite attractive. It's not enough to banish the last vestiges of illness from his face; bags remain beneath his eyes, but enough goes away to make him look five years younger. "Well I appreciate it" he says easily. "I've been a bit of a hermit, need to get out more." He looks around the pub. "Not quite the wild days of my youth, but it will do."

"Wild days?" Anderson asks.

"Oh yes" John says and his smile slides into something mischievous. "Wild days."

"I'll believe it" Sally says. "I have a cousin who went to Queen Mary, she has stories. It's nice to put a face to the tales of John Watson's madcap plans. Wasn't there something about a mini on a roof?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny that." John says, looking the most relaxed Greg has ever seen him. But still on guard. "What was her name?"

"Marianne Donovan. She's a journalist." John's smile turned softer but still wicked.

"I remember her. Tell her hello from me." He takes another drink and the table changes subject.

An hour later John still hasn't touched alcohol but everyone else has had enough to loosen tongues and for stories to start flowing. John is joining in without regard for personal embarrassment, sharing university stories, Sally chipping when she recognises where it's going.

"And then he said, 'just look up' and we did and there it was."

"Seriously. He actually did that?" John is bright eyed with laughter like everyone else.

"You have yourself one crazy bugger mate" Greg says and it's followed by several "Here Here"s and a "True".

"No, no." John says this with patience and a slight sign of being uncomfortable. "I'm not, we're not together."

Sally flicks her eyebrows, disbelieving. "You know, you said something, the 'bust' weeks back. Freak"

"Sally." John says, tone warning.

"Sherlock asked about dying words and you said…"

"Please, God, let me live." John says quietly, pushing his orange juice away. His eyes are three and a half thousand miles distant.

"Yeah" Anderson says. "What was that about?"

John looks at them all, finishing with Greg. He looks old, soul old. This man, Greg realises, has looked death in the eye more than once and on each time, come out on top.

"I had a fever. Well no, wrong start, sorry." John wets his lips, clenches his left fist on the table. "I was shot, in the shoulder. It was an ambush, and I was part of a convoy. People were down, so I was leaning over one patient in the dust. I leaned back, and stood up a bit and a sniper got me in the front. Body armour didn't stop it. Lodged in my scapula." He takes a drink, face as far away as his eyes. He tells the morbid and enthralling story with his body and face as well as his voice. Greg can feel the dust and blood under his fingertips. He rubs his shoulder in sympathy.

"What happened?" Hopkins asks. He's the rookie, does all the errands.

"I got up and continued" John says. "Collapsed when we were safe. It got infected and I got Malaria. It wasn't nice." Everyone winces, and Grey thinks that that must be one of the largest understatements he's ever heard. "My heart stopped" John says like it's the most simple thing. And it is. A heart is just a muscle. "Twice. Once when they were removing the infected tissue and once after two weeks of high fever." Just a muscle after two weeks of strain and racing as John babbles hallucinations as fever eats at his body and morphine tries to calm his brain. No wonder he looked so ill.

"That's me done. I have to see what the genius has been up to." He finishes his drink and stands, smiling at them all. He walks away, using the cane in the wrong hand instead of putting pressure on the wrong shoulder.

"My God" Anderson says, and raising his glass. "To John Watson. Probably the worst not corpse I've ever seen"

"John Watson" everyone echoes, and drinks.

"Who's round?" Sally asks. "I need another after that. It's almost killed the mood."

"Yours" Greg says, not saying 'It almost killed John Watson'. He leans back, mulling things over in his mind. The System will be working overtime now, as rumours spread. A phone call is necessary. The right person and a file will be on his desk by lunch in two days, information flowing sideways to reach him. Time to find out.

A soldier with a gun. A doctor with a bag and a caring hand. A smiling man with three and a half thousand mile eyes. Greg is a policeman. He like solutions. He has patience and a way of talking to people so you don't realise you're giving the answers. He'll enjoy getting answers from John. The tough ones are always the most fun to crack.