Work Text:
The boxes stacked in 221B were finally being sorted, at Mrs Hudson's request — a request that had, by now, come to border on a threat.
Everything John kept from the army fitted into one old lidded kit box. How long since he'd opened it — years, certainly. A folded beret, spare dog tags, pale faded sand in the bottom of the box — and then. Sherlock's long fingers lifted out a small round tin.
"May I open it?"
"Since when do you ask?"
The tin was packed with cotton wool, and bedded in the middle of it lay a single dull lump of metal.
One bullet, its tip crushed flat.
John said nothing. He had never once thought of throwing it away. He had never once opened the lid. It had simply travelled with him, move after move, at the very bottom of his luggage.
Sherlock picked it up, no gloves, and held it to the window light.
".303 British. Lee-Enfield. Old British Army rifle — the range is why it's still used for sniping in Afghanistan. Which means this bullet was made in Britain. The bullet that shot you has come home."
"…Never thought of it that way."
"The jacket alloy is old. Manufactured over half a century ago — it's older than you are. Five rifling grooves, left-hand twist: that confirms the Enfield. From the deformation at the tip and the scoring along the side, it was well below the speed of sound on impact. Range, roughly seven hundred metres. A sniper. A good one."
Then, still holding the bullet to the light, Sherlock went quiet for a moment.
"—The angle of entry is wrong. Not the angle of a man standing and returning fire. You were bent low. Over someone — covering them."
John didn't answer. Not answering was the answer. When the bullet arrived, John's hands were holding not a weapon but a dying man's left leg, all but blown away.
Sherlock set the bullet gently back on its cotton wool, and closed the lid.
"I'm keeping this."
"…Why?"
"It marked you. In that case, it belongs with me."
The reasoning didn't quite join; somewhere in the middle of it there was a gap. What was kept in the gap, John didn't ask.
"…Yeah. All right."
Sherlock dropped the tin into the inside pocket of his coat and, as though nothing had happened, started on the next box.
From that night on, John's luggage was one thing lighter.
fin.