He had been in Afghanistan. But he wasn't shot. No. The wound was old, is very old. He got it defending his King so many years ago. He didn't like anyone touching it. He didn't even allow his King.

John let Sherlock fuss. He let him fawn. But he batted his hands away if he tried to touch.

Finally he eased himself up and made his way to the stairs. He was tired, exhausted. His magic was going on overdrive to heal. He just wanted to fall into bed.

"I'm going upstairs Sherlock."