Title: Assessments

Author: Still Waters

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

Summary: As a doctor and soldier, John's first priorities upon walking into a situation were triage and threat assessment. It was only after those were taken care of that he allowed himself to consider why Sherlock was holding a gun on Mrs. Hudson's attacker with his left hand.

Notes: Based off of two scenes from "A Scandal in Belgravia", this story was born from a desire to honor Martin Freeman's beautifully layered portrayal of John, a need to further explore John's badass observation skills, and my own left-handedness. I love watching John in the background of scenes – he is always so engaged, and I can feel him quietly deducing and assessing just as naturally as Sherlock does. Like John, I'm also left-handed, and after noting a scene in "The Great Game" where John is eating with his right hand for some reason (which will end up being a story of its own), I then noticed that in ASiB, when John goes up to find Sherlock holding a gun on the tied up CIA agent who attacked Mrs. Hudson, that Sherlock is holding the gun with his left hand, rather than the right-handed grip he had used in the pool scene with Moriarty. So, armed with that puzzle, this piece became an excuse for writing John the doctor/soldier/left-hander being awesome and assessing and deducing both a room and Sherlock himself, as well as some serious character study, because I just can't get enough of the wealth of character information in episode minutiae. The scenes this piece is based off of can be viewed here [www(dot)youtube(dot)com(slash)watch?v=SGuKcymhlgM] and here [www(dot)youtube(dot)com(slash)watch?v=Qeh2Q0q0zTE&feature=relmfu]. As always, I hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading.

As a doctor and soldier, John's first priorities upon walking into any situation were triage and threat assessment. So firmly intertwined were the two identities that the evaluations occurred both simultaneously and without thought, to the point that entering his shared London flat through a door marked by one of Sherlock's cryptic notes became no different than squinting through a sandy post-mortar haze, mapping out an evacuation route for a soldier whose blood dripped ominously from the stiffening, glove-scrunched uniform material above his confident, trained hands. Like Sherlock, it was automatic; yet unlike Sherlock, often unexpected. When Sherlock was studying, dissecting, and deducing someone, it was both expected and generally obvious – the intensity of that laser focus burned through his eyes; mind too brilliant to be held back by mere tissue and pigment as it worked. But, as in many other ways, John differed from his flatmate – his observations and assessments were quiet and unobtrusive, only shared if deemed absolutely necessary. People rarely suspected how much was steadily passing through John's mind as he stood quietly in a room, and John preferred it that way. Being underestimated gave him more options. So John walked up to the flat and hovered at the door, allowing a perfectly expected sense of bewilderment to color his face and voice, his position in the doorway appearing as shocked surprise, a confused man taking it all in, while he was really protecting their one clear, easily accessible exit until he knew the threat was contained. His confused, "what the hell is happening?" continued the smokescreen, masking the fact that his mind was already fully engaged, sweeping the room both clinically and tactically.

Threat assessment took the lead, as dead doctors weren't of much use. Couldn't help anyone if you got yourself taken out too. On that front, Sherlock appeared to have found and neutralized the threat. CIA. Tied and gagged, secured well, Sherlock already on the phone, presumably calling Lestrade for assistance (and possibly Mycroft for answers), gun steadily reminding the agent that an escape attempt would be unwise. A brief, typically roundabout Sherlockian explanation washed over John, filling in the most important pieces of the puzzle. Mrs. Hudson attacked. Sherlock, thank God, in time to prevent further harm. While he wasn't particularly interested in treating a man who had threatened his friends, John's triage assessment continued unbidden – enemy or friend, his doctor's eyes performed a distant examination. The agent was bloodied and stiff, with an occasional hitch of discomfort that was quickly tampered down – a man obviously trained to suppress pain as well as fear. His nose was already bruising, but still compensating for his taped mouth, the current, distinctive breathing pattern easily maintaining adequate oxygenation. It was a respiratory picture more characteristic of anger and irritation than distress or injury; a common enough physiological response to Sherlock's presence that John would have honestly been more concerned had he not seen it. Diagnosis: no life-threatening injuries (yet, judging by the steely fire in Sherlock's eyes and matching burn in John's chest). Move on.

John's attention returned to Sherlock, who was sitting with his usual confident, straight-backed sprawl (yet another one of those odd dichotomies that John had learned to simply classify as Sherlock's default setting), phone to his right ear, gun in his left hand, leveled at the CIA agent. He watched Sherlock stand, observing his flatmate's fluid grace, steady, unwavering stance, and even breathing; eyes clear with his characteristically sharp focus, intensified by a cold, calculated plan for the man who had dared to harm Mrs. Hudson. John gave a short mental nod, satisfied that the fight with the agent had indeed been one-sided and that Sherlock had never been touched. Good. As Sherlock was uninjured and the agent restrained, they could afford having Sherlock both on the phone and keeping a gun trained on Mrs. Hudson's attacker. Sherlock wasn't the best shot and his gun safety was practically non-existent, but he was focused and steady now, the protective burn of that "caring lark" keeping him on task. John knew that he wouldn't hesitate to shoot right now, nor would he miss.

The soldier and physician satisfied on those fronts, John shifted his focus to expand on his initial assessment of Mrs. Hudson. Sitting up, talking, coherent. Initial sweep showed minor lacerations and bruising; no depth requiring sutures, or edema compromising circulation or airway management. No wincing or shallow breathing suggestive of damaged ribs, no curled positioning or guarding indicating abdominal trauma and potential internal bleeding. Hands shaking, then up to her face as a sob finally escaped. Shock. Adrenaline crash. Fear's ugly aftermath. Superficial cuts, bruising, shock. Manageable. Treatable. Excellent prognosis. His eyes shifted back to Sherlock and the intruder as he held Mrs. Hudson close. While he'd love to stay and help Sherlock deal with the CIA agent, Sherlock had it handled until Scotland Yard arrived, so, as much as his left fist clenched with anger and the muscle memory of close combat training, revenge was not the priority right now. The woman trembling under his soothing right hand was. Time for the soldier to stand down and the doctor to take the lead.

A conclusion Sherlock had also apparently reached as he instructed John, "Take her downstairs and look after her."

With the major assessments completed and a plan in motion, John allowed his focus to expand to the rest of the scene. He may not have been Sherlock bloody Holmes, but John did notice seemingly unimportant, but extremely telling, details in people. Like handedness. Whether it was his own left-handed minority status, or numerous personal experiences with the importance of that piece of information, John tended to unconsciously pick up on that bit of minutiae in daily life. Which was why, even as the doctor and soldier were running through their priority assessments from the moment he entered the doorway of the flat, the left-hander had seen that Sherlock was holding the gun in his left hand, while his dominant right hand held his phone to his ear. Not that it was uncommon - most people alternated hands for different tasks at some point. John, for instance, shot with his non-dominant, right hand – a product of weapons designed for right-handed people and instructors who largely were those right-handed people. So while John may have eaten and written with his left, whenever he trained a gun on someone with one hand, it was always with his right. Not so much a choice as a necessity; the curse of being left-handed in a right-handed world. Where variations in hand preference really became important though, was when there were two objects needing to be handled in an urgent situation – that was where hand choice spoke volumes. And when it came down to Sherlock, John had no better reference point than Moriarty and the pool.

When John had been forced to reveal himself and the bomb, Sherlock had smoothly and unconsciously shifted the memory stick he had been holding from his right hand to his left as he walked toward John, leaving his right hand free to pull the gun when Moriarty entered. When eventually handing the memory stick over, Sherlock had once again relegated it to his non-dominant hand, offering it with his left, while keeping the gun steady in his right. John had noted that when people had a choice between two things in a tense situation, they tended to use their stronger, dominant hand, the one they were more comfortable with, for whichever object or task they considered most important. When surrounded by panic and danger, you took comfort and certainty where you could find it – such as in the easy surety of a dominant, steady hand. John had recognized, with the strange, clear focus of adrenaline and near-certain death, that the gun had been more important in Sherlock's mind than the leverage of the memory stick. The need to keep some semblance of threat on Moriarty, however unlikely it was to protect either of them from multiple snipers' bullets, kept the gun in Sherlock's stronger right hand.

But now, in the wake of foreign intrusion and an attack on a woman they both considered family, the phone took Sherlock's stronger right hand, leaving the gun to the less-used left. The CIA agent was restrained, so the threat wasn't as great as Moriarty, but the reasoning wasn't that simple. With Sherlock it never was. No, John couldn't help but think that it was all about the bloody phone. Knew it was, in fact. Sherlock's mobile wasn't just a way to contact the police, as it was being used now; it was an extension of Sherlock's brilliant mind. It augmented his personal hard drive; a research tool for finding and supplementing data, allowing him instant access to what he needed to create and test hypotheses, to prove others wrong and himself right. He used it for managing a long and diverse list of contacts who owed him favors, for texting and communicating with others, for collaborating and sharing his genius with the world. It was, in a way, an extension of Sherlock as much as Irene Adler's phone was an extension of her. So here, not only was the CIA agent's diminished threat made obvious, but John also got a clear, outer confirmation of Sherlock's inner method of prioritization. And all from how Sherlock had automatically dismissed the firearm to his weaker hand and elevated the phone to his dominant one.

Amazing.

And also, John had to admit, slightly worrisome. The fact that his natural tendency to analyze handedness had progressed to such intricate depths just might be indicative of far too much time spent around Sherlock Holmes. John shook his head ruefully, filing the new information away to his inner "Sherlock file" as he continued walking Mrs. Hudson down the stairs.

"Take her downstairs and look after her."

Oh.

John nearly stopped in his tracks. Here he was worrying about analyzing things too much, when he actually hadn't been analyzing them enough. Typical Sherlock, managing to get one up on him without even trying. John had missed it the first time, the words following him down the stairs and echoing in his mind until it suddenly became clear. Sherlock hadn't just been talking about getting Mrs. Hudson to safety before - he had been talking about hands. Because he'd run out of them. His left held a deadly threat against an attacker, his right called for Lestrade and a final management of that same threat, but there was still one thing left to be handled. The most important one of all: Mrs. Hudson. And Sherlock was entrusting her to the strongest hands he had for the task: John's. It was all right there, a deeper conversation under the seven words that had been spoken, just waiting for John to recognize and give it voice. What most people would never realize about Sherlock Holmes was that not only did he truly care about some people, but he also said that he cared – it was just hidden beneath the seemingly unrelated words that actually came out of his mouth; encased within the puzzling, endless strata of language, tone, and scientific distance, for only the most diligent of excavators to find and gifted of translators to decode. And John - quiet, unassuming, observant John - had, as if born to it, become the world's only reliable translator of the world's only consulting detective's depths. But despite that unique knowledge and position, John still remained John and out of loyalty to his own moral principles and respect for Sherlock's pride and sense of identity, kept those quietly profound translations between himself and his source material. Unless absolutely necessary.

So John guided Mrs. Hudson to the safety of her kitchen, military posture relaxed to enfold her within compassionate doctor's arms promising gentle treatment to come. And when Sherlock finally had both hands free to deal with the importance of throwing the CIA agent out the window, John was cleaning Mrs. Hudson's lacerated face with the only hand he used for the steady, practiced art of healing; the fulfillment of one of his most important oaths.

His left.