Sherlock got the first hint months in advance at an ordinary crime scene when John mentioned the upcoming Olympics.

"The traffic's going to be a bloody nightmare," Lestrade was saying, "But, I suppose, it's good for the country, and all."

John nodded. "Yeah, getting around will be a bother, not to mention all those extra tourists getting into trouble." Lestrade groaned his agreement as Sherlock rolled his eyes at the reminder. John grinned at them and added, "But still, I'm looking forward to it. A reason to cheer for the country, support the athletes and the flag. A chance for countries to compete without guns for a change, all that. It'll be fun."

Sherlock lifted his head from the latest murder victim (crime of passion, most likely her husband, assuming he wore Nike trainers)."Really? I didn't think you were interested in any sports other than rugby and football."

"Well, it's not like track and field normally get quite the same attention, Sherlock, but the Olympics are … well … they're exciting. Something to cheer for." John looked almost embarrassed at the admission.

Sherlock snorted. "Pure sentimental commercialization, if you ask me. Sports are just a waste of time to begin with, and this? Weeks of inconvenience, costing billions of pounds, and for what? What's the point?"

"Oi," protested Lestrade. "Just because you're not interested doesn't mean the rest of us don't enjoy them. I mean, I'm not looking forward to the godawful logistical nightmare it's going to cause, but still … it's the Olympics. We're the only city ever to host three times. It's an honor to have them."

"Please, running around after balls—what possible use does that ever have in real life?"

John just laughed. "You emdo/em remember that case last month where you threw me the bag of evidence across the room, over the head of the criminal, don't you? Or that time I knocked down that idiot with the paperweight? Ball-throwing skills, right there."

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "I don't think that's something that comes up all that often, John."

But John wasn't finished. Eyes alight with mischief, he continued, "And, if we could run 100 meters in 10 seconds, just think how much quicker we'd catch our criminals. Pole-vaulting would certainly come in handy, too."

Sherlock met his smile with one of his own. "Track stars don't have the physique to take down the criminals when they catch them, though. Think it through, John."

"So we need some nice, Olympic-class wrestlers, too. I'm sure they'd come in handy." John said. Then he smirked a little and added, "And let's not forget the marksmen for when you need a good man with a gun."

"I've already got one," Sherlock said, lips quirking at the corners.

Lestrade was grinning at the two of them. "You keep this up, you'll be handing out recruiting flyers at the stadium in a few months, John."

"Citius, Altius, Fortius at Scotland Yard," said John with a laugh.

"What's that?"

"The Olympic motto. Faster, higher, stronger," John said absently, eyes on the body so that he didn't see the other two staring at him in surprise. "Chosen for the 1896 games by Baron de Coubertain. You know, Sherlock, I don't see any signs of trauma on the woman's body at all. Just the trauma to the head."

Sherlock nodded. "I agree. It seems boringly obvious."

And it was, he thought as they left the scene, but that was all right. He was already thinking about a new mystery—wondering why John found the Olympics so interesting.

He knew John enjoyed sports—he had played rugby in school and went to watch various matches or games or whatever they were called with Lestrade down at the pub from time to time. It was a harmless enough hobby, even if a complete waste of time. He supposed he shouldn't be so surprised that John would be caught up in the national madness that was the 2012 Olympics.

But, still. John knew the motto—and in Latin, nonetheless. Was that normal?

#

Days later. Sherlock was lying on the couch, thinking about the latest case when John came trudging up the stairs. He pulled off his coat and headed toward the kitchen to make tea.

Before long he returned, placed a mug of tea next to Sherlock and then plopped down into his chair with a sigh. "It was just a ridiculous day today," he said. "You'd think every child in the city came down with colds and the Stupid Accident disease on the same day. Frantic parents. Crying children. A nightmare."

"You're the one who wanted to be a doctor," Sherlock said.

"Well, yes, but I was an Army doctor—the cases were a little different. Not that soldiers never catch cold, mind you, but then it was almost a relief between all the gunshot wounds and such. Who would have thought medicine could be both exhausting and totally boring at the same time?"

"Better than sewing bomb victims back together, though," Sherlock said with a smile.

"Well, yes, but at least that was never boring." John leaned his head back with a sigh.

"Maybe the influx of tourists for the Olympics will liven things up."

A snort. "I rather doubt any of them will be coming through the surgery, Sherlock. For anything interesting I'd have to be on the Olympics staff, but most teams have their own doctors."

"Really? You would find that interesting? To stand on the sidelines at some sporting event just in case somebody suffered from heatstroke or a sprained ankle? Dull."

John tilted his head and made a face. "Not interesting in itself, I suppose, but to be a part of it? How often do the Olympics happen in your own city? It's a once-in-a-lifetime event. It would just be … good … to be involved."

Interesting, indeed, thought Sherlock.

#

A couple weeks later, they were called to a crime scene at the Royal Artillery Barracks. "I know this is unusual," Lestrade said as he waved them in. "The military usually prefers to police itself, but since this was connected to the Olympics, they called us in."

"Joseph Barry," he said as they approached the shooting range. "One of the organizers of the event, found shot through the head at the end of the range, right behind one of the paper targets"

"So the shooter was unaware he was there?" John asked, eyebrows lifted high on his brow.

"That's what we think," Lestrade said, "But that's why you're here. The bloke is practically in hysterics, swearing he didn't know."

Sherlock was examining the room, noting the closed doors and obstacles. "It's not like it's easy to wander onto the business end of the range by mistake."

"Practically impossible," John said, looking around with a faint air of nostalgia. "And people who emdo/em come here are well aware there's live ammunition being fired. You'd have to be suicidal to stand behind a paper target—assuming you could get back there at all."

"And assuming it was voluntary," said Sherlock.

"You sound like you know what you're talking about, John," Lestrade said with a note of surprise. "Although, I suppose you were in the army, so this isn't your first time on a shooting range?"

Sherlock glanced over in time to see a quick, tight smile flicker on John's face. "I've seen a few in my day."

Sherlock moved forward to see the paper target, still hanging in front of the dead man. "A perfect head shot. Or …" he stepped closer, "It looks like more than one shot. The hole isn't perfectly round. How many bullets were found?"

"There were three shots in the head," Lestrade answered, gesturing at the body. "Which leads us to think it was deliberate. One could have been an accident, I suppose, but three?"

John and Sherlock leaned forward to take a look at the victim. "It looks like the first shot would have killed him," John said after a moment, "The second would have done some damage, too, of course, but it was already too late. The third is more of a graze—from the body dropping, no doubt."

"But—is that even possible?" Lestrade asked. "To fire multiple shots accurately enough to appear as one hole in the target but fast enough to hit the vic three times as he fell?"

"They do train marksmen here, Lestrade, and it's an Olympic venue," Sherlock reminded him. "Most people using this range would have no trouble being that accurate. Isn't that right, John?"

Lestrade looked disbelieving at John's nod. "No, that's impossible. Not at that speed."

"Absolutely possible," John reaffirmed.

"Could you do it?" asked Sherlock.

"Of course." John's reply was automatic, with no false modesty, but he immediately licked his lips and glanced at Lestrade. "I mean, I was trained."

Sherlock just nodded, keeping his amusement from his face. "Let me see. The weapon was a pistol, yes?"

Lestrade was nodding, but said, "Wait, you want to actually test it? I don't think we're supposed to do that, Sherlock. These guys are awfully serious about these things."

"Please, Lestrade, John knows what he's doing. He was an army Captain, remember? It's not like it's the first time he's fired a gun."

Lestrade was boringly insistent on getting approval before they fired anything, but Sherlock went on ahead, assembling the proper equipment and moving John to the next lane so they'd be ready to go when Lestrade returned.

"Why are you doing this, Sherlock?" John's voice was quiet.

"I need to know how easily that accuracy and speed could be repeated, John, and you're the best shot I know."

"These are professionals who use this range, Sherlock. What makes you think my shooting can compare?" Sherlock just gave him a look, that don't-be-an-idiot look that he had mastered at the age of eight, and John subsided, so that all they had to do was wait.

Lestrade returned with three men in tow, all protesting that if the detective needed someone to shoot for comparison's sake, they'd be more than happy to provide a shooter of similar caliber. The looks they shot toward John were skeptical—it was well known how little Scotland Yard used guns and they clearly did not expect much from a jumper-wearing civilian consultant.

While they were debating behind him, Sherlock handed John the pistol and smiled as he rolled his eyes and then smoothly lifted it and, taking aim, fired three quick shots.

There was an abrupt silence as Sherlock pressed the button to draw the paper target forward … a silence that deepened as all of them grew perfectly still, staring at the near-perfect circle at the center of the target.

John calmly put down the gun, automatically checking to make sure the clip was empty, and took off the ear protectors, ignoring the dumbfounded expressions. He met Sherlock's eyes for a brief, amused moment, but otherwise did nothing until Lestrade stuttered, "J-John. That was … I …"

"Excuse me, you are?" One of the range officials was stepping forward, eyes quizzical on John's face.

"Captain John Watson, RAMC, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, retired," John said, shaking his hand. "It's been a while since I was on a range, and I couldn't help myself—especially since it helped the case. It emdid/em help, right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock felt his smile widening. He did so love a chance to show John's talents off to the unsuspecting. "Oh yes, indeed. Very helpful."

The man from the Olympics committee was murmuring, "John Watson, John Watson … that sounds so famili… Of course! Barcelona 1992. Pistol, 50 meters, wasn't it?"

John gave a long blink and ducked his head a little in embarrassment, as the others all stared at him—even Sherlock. "That was a long time ago."

"Wait," said Lestrade, "Barcelona? That was … You were in the emOlympics/em? Christ, John, why didn't you say something?"

"It was a long time ago," John repeated with a shrug. "It's not that big a deal. It's not like I medaled or anything."

"No, but you should have. I remember disagreeing with that call," the Olympics man was saying.

Sherlock watched as his friend practically squirmed under the attention. "Fair's fair. It just wasn't my day." He looked around frantically for a distraction. "Look, shouldn't we be focusing on poor Mr. Barry over there and not my past failures?"

Sherlock forced his attention back to the case, but his mind was reeling. His John had shot in the Olympics? And had missed out on a medal? How had he not known? He fired off a quick text to Mycroft and then went back to work, trying not to be distracted by the adoring looks being sent John's way.

#

Later, back at Baker Street, John settled into his chair and just looked at Sherlock. "All right. You've got questions," was all he said with a smile, deliberately harking back to the cab ride where all of this had started.

"So that's why you knew the Olympic motto," Sherlock stated. It was not a question.

A short smile. "Yes."

"And why you like the Olympics so much."

"Despite sports being a complete waste of time? Yes."

"Obviously not in this case," Sherlock said with a shrug, ignoring the bait. "Shooting is certainly a useful skill for a soldier as well as a crime fighter."

A huff of laughter. "You make me sound like a super hero, Sherlock."

"With Olympic-class shooting skills, why were you not a sniper in the army?"

John's eyebrows lifted. "Doctor, remember? I may shoot to kill when forced to, but I'd much rather save a life than take one."

Sherlock nodded. That had been obvious, really. Stupid of him. "But you gave up competitive shooting after 1992?"

"Yes."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the abrupt answer. "What happened?"

The merest shrug with his expressive eyebrows. "Nothing earth-shattering, Sherlock. I made it to the finals and came in fourth by a hair. There was some contention about whose shot was better, but it turned out not to be mine. It's a competition. It happens. I was lucky to get so far at all at 22."

"But it made you quit." Sherlock was trying to understand, seeing the memory of failure in John's eyes.

But he was shaking his head. "No, I quit because it was time. I was going into medical school and didn't have the time to compete anymore. Or the money." He grimaced, and Sherlock remembered having heard that competition was expensive and John's family had not been wealthy. "It was just something I did for a while, but it was never going to be my whole life. It's not important."

Sherlock said, "Even I know that being in the Olympics is extraordinary."

"Changing your mind about the Olympics, Sherlock?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to shrug. "Perhaps it's different when you know an Olympian personally."

John smiled and pushed himself to his feet. "Like I said, it was a long time ago. It's not a big deal. I just like the Olympics, all right? Tea?"

Sherlock nodded, but his mind was racing. John might not be haunted by that loss, and he certainly had moved on to more important things, but still … nobody made it to the Olympics without having dreams of success. Without having passion. Knowing that John had come so close … No matter what he said, John obviously viewed it as a personal failure. Sherlock had seen the flush in his face and found himself bothered by that. It was one thing for other people to underestimate John Watson, but for John himself? Something had to be done.

#

It was weeks later. Sherlock glanced at the mail Mrs. Hudson had left, spotting a familiar logo. His lips quirked upward the tiniest bit as he waited for John to come home.

He watched as John flipped through the bills and junk mail and then pause at the envelope with the purple logo. He reached for a letter opener instead of tearing into it like he usually did, unfolded the letter and stared. "Sherlock? They want me to carry the torch," he said, voice flat with disbelief.

"What? Sorry, John?"

"The Olympic torch, Sherlock. This is an invitation to carry it in the relay when it comes to London in July. How? Why?"

Sherlock just lifted a careless eyebrow, eyes on his newspaper. "They must have realized the promotional value of having a former Olympian and a war hero carrying the thing. I'm sure you don't have to do it if you don't want to. Mycroft could probably get you out of it."

John had sunk down into his chair, letter in hand. "I … don't you need to be nominated for this, or something?"

"I really wouldn't know," Sherlock said with a shrug, though he suspected it didn't fool John. "Chinese for dinner?"

"Sherlock!" John had read further and now his face was alight with frustration, joy, surprise. "It says right here that my name was suggested by emyou/em."

Sherlock pulled himself to a sitting position. "I might have mentioned it to Mycroft."

"It says you had to write an essay."

"Child's play," said Sherlock. "It's so easy to manipulate people with sentiment."

"Jesus, Sherlock, what did you write?"

Sherlock rose to his feet and headed for the pile of menus in the kitchen. "Oh, the usual. How you were in the Olympics before joining the army where you were shot in service to your country, returning a war hero who has since devoted himself to putting criminals behind bars when not working as a doctor to save lives … the usual kind of sentimental rubbish. Naturally, I didn't mention the blog."

"But … why?"

He glanced at John, still sitting numbly in his chair. He didn't look as pleased as Sherlock had expected. "I thought you loved the Olympics, John, and wanted to be part of them?"

John gave a desperate little laugh. "Well, yes, but … carrying the torch? Sherlock, that's …"

"An honor?" suggested Sherlock.

"Well, yes." John's hands clenched as he struggled to find the words. "But carrying the torch is for people who are extraordinary. I mean, yes, there are celebrities and former Olympians who participate, but most of the people … it's their one and only shot to be honored for the good, emworthy/em things they do, like running soup kitchens and being community leaders. They deserve their chance to be recognized."

Sherlock was leaning forward now, eyes intent. "Exactly, John. Which is why this is perfect for you." Why was John being so dense today?

"Why? Because I lost my chance to win a medal twenty years ago? Carrying the torch is for heroes, Sherlock—especially the unsung ones. I'm just a former army captain who used to be a surgeon who can shoot a little. Just not well enough. I don't deserve to carry that torch."

Sherlock was astounded. He knew that other people underestimated John all the time. He had even made that mistake himself when they first met—right up until John shot the cabbie and changed his life. He was well aware that most people forgot John's military service, forgot his extraordinary skill as a doctor, and completely forgot that he had a strength of character honed by years in a battle zone. They saw the cozy jumpers and the endless cups of tea. They saw the unassuming smile and the willingness to stand back while Sherlock took center stage.

Yes, he knew that other people underestimated John. He was just astounded to realize that so did emJohn/em.

Was it possible that, despite all his accomplishments, all the lives he'd saved, John still saw himself as a failure? How was that possible? It wasn't his fault that Afghani bullet had torn through his shoulder while he was busy saving lives.

"I told you once that heroes didn't exist, John, but I was wrong," Sherlock told him slowly, picking his words with care. "You shoot well enough to have saved my life on multiple occasions, John, not to mention being a good enough doctor to save any number of patients here and in Afghanistan. There are a number of people at the Met who owe you their lives as well."

John started to say something, but Sherlock just raised his voice slightly and continued. "It doesn't matter that you missed out on a medal in Barcelona—on the merest technicality, I might add because, yes, I looked it up. You may be absurdly modest and unassuming, but that doesn't change the fact that you've lived your life according to those ridiculously noble Olympic standards. You, John Watson, are, by every definition of the word, a hero. I nominated you because nobody I know deserves to carry that torch more than you, and it's time you allowed yourself to realize it."

He took a moment to relish the stunned expression on John's face and then lifted his phone. "I'll just call in our usual order then?"

John just nodded, stunned, as Sherlock gave a small smile.

#

"Are you ready?"

It was a hot July day and the crowd lining the street was large and excited. John nodded nervously. "I still don't know how I let you talk me into this."

"You're a hero, remember?" Sherlock said with a grin.

"To you, maybe, but these people have no idea who I am." John said, stretching nervously as he looked at the crowd.

"I wouldn't say that, John," a voice came from behind them. They turned to see Greg Lestrade, a huge grin plastered on his face. "You've made yourself pretty well known these last few years."

John groaned. "If you mean those damned tabloids and their wild accusations…."

"No, of course not," Lestrade said quickly. "I mean—with us. Don't think we haven't noticed how helpful you are … not least at reining in this idiot's worst impulses, because believe me, we emall/em appreciate that. But, I mean, otherwise, and I'm not just talking about that cabbie I don't know about. There are plenty of us who know what you've done for your country, and we're proud to be here."

Sherlock gave an approving nod, noting the flush in John's face. The color deepened when he looked back to see the officers gathering to escort him and the torch as he ran—all familiar faces from crime scenes with Sherlock. Sally Donovan was grinning at John. "Our division doesn't usually run protection details," she told him, "But seeing how this leg is being run by one of our own, more or less, we made an exception."

John looked surprised, and gratified, and finally, emfinally/em, Sherlock saw the beginnings of pride on his face. He knew John Watson was a man of great modesty. He brushed attention away from himself like it was an annoying mosquito, but there was a difference between being modest and being obtuse. Sherlock not only wanted the whole world to see what a wonder John Watson was, but he wanted to John to see it, too. He wanted John to realize what a remarkable man he truly was.

Minutes later, when the torch had been passed and John started down the street, the cheers began. Sherlock saw familiar faces lining the route. Faces from Scotland Yard. John's fellow doctors from Barts and the various surgeries that he worked in. He saw people who were obviously patients. There was a contingent of soldiers who presumably knew John from his service in Afghanistan. He even saw some of his own, grateful clients. And, naturally, every CCTV camera on the route turned to follow.

All here to cheer on John Watson as he ran with the Olympic flame streaming from his hand.

Sherlock had always said John was illuminating, but now, with the flame burning above his head and hundreds of cheering faces yelling for his friend he realized … John Watson really was, above all things, brilliant. Not dazzling like the sun, perhaps, but warm and bright like a hearth-fire, the kind of warmth that drew you near and made you feel safe.

If that wasn't a hero, he didn't know what was.

##

(Yes, I know, the ending's a little cheesy, a little sentimental, but … it's the Olympics. They're supposed to be sentimental and emotional on a huge scale. I just wanted to play along.

Oh, and I know nothing about shooting ranges, so any inaccuracies are entirely my own.

I own nothing but my own plot-the characters and universe I love to play in are the BBC's and Arthur Conan Doyle's.)