Sherlock and John had just wrapped up another case and were back at Scotland Yard. Lestrade and Donovan listened (he politely, she less so) as Sherlock spewed out deductions at Mach 5. John and Anderson sat to one side, typing up reports.
John grumbled, "I can't believe all this sodding paperwork."
Anderson sneered, "Well, maybe you'd get it done faster if you used all ten fingers to type."
The temperature in the room dropped 20 degrees. The glare John gave Anderson could have cut diamonds. Lestrade's jaw dropped; Anderson couldn't really be this stupid, could he? Even Donovan looked appalled. It was Sherlock, however, who broke the silence. With a few long strides, he closed the distance between himself and Anderson and sent his fist crashing into the other man's face. Anderson and his chair fell over backwards.
Sherlock picked him up by his shirt, slammed him into the wall and growled, "Anderson, that was a display of idiocy far beyond even your usual moronic depths! Anyone with the observational skills of a six-year-old child would see that Captain John Watson was able to type seventy words per minute before he was shot in Afghanistan! Even an imbecile like you should know better than to disrespect a war hero!"
"How could I have known he was a war hero?" Anderson protested, frantic.
Donovan folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. "How could you not have known that?"
Calmly, John walked over to Sherlock and placed one hand on Sherlock's arm. "It's all right, Sherlock, put him down."
Sherlock dropped Anderson onto the floor and stepped back, staring daggers.
John helped Anderson up, looked him in the eye, and said, "I was shot in the left shoulder during my third tour. I had extensive nerve damage and spent a long time in physical therapy. Most of my motor functions came back, but my left hand still can't keep up with my right hand when I'm typing. The only way I can produce anything coherent is to use one finger on each hand."
"I'm sorry," Anderson said, his face bright crimson.
"You should be," John said, and nailed Anderson's face with a right hook. Blood dribbled out of the taller man's nose as he hit the floor again.
Struggling to his feet, Anderson spluttered, "Aren't you going to do anything about them hitting me?"
Lestrade turned to Donovan. "I didn't see anyone hit Anderson, did you, Sergeant?"
"No, sir, looks to me like he fell. He's always been clumsy," Donovan replied, putting undue emphasis on the last word.
John said, "Right, well, I think we're done here," and marched out. The Yarders would remember it later as the only time Sherlock ever chased after John.
In the cab on the way home, John said, "Sherlock, um, what you did there earlier was…"
Sherlock interrupted him. "Not good? I probably shouldn't have roughed him up like that, should I?"
"Er, no, actually, it was very good. Thank you."
"Well, it was Anderson, after all," John said, and they both chuckled. "But no, it was very, um, kind of you to defend me. But, er… I didn't really type seventy words per minute before I was shot."
"Yes, I doubt you ever typed more than fifty words per minute. However, I knew that if I exaggerated your skills, it would increase Anderson's embarrassment, and Anderson is most amusing when he's embarrassed." The two men laughed again.
After a long pause, John cocked his head and asked, "You really think I'm a hero?"
Sherlock scoffed, "John, I called you a war hero the first time we met."
"Yeah. I didn't think you actually meant it, though."
"Wrong," Sherlock said with a smirk, then launched into his explanation of why the babysitter had committed the murder.
John gazed at Sherlock, a small smile on his face. Sometimes he enjoyed being wrong.