[ The soldier definitely draws up at that, eyes narrowing with the refusal. By some miracle, John lets Sherlock get through his careful retort, even seems to weigh it for a moment, before he reaches up and swings a backhand at the younger man's face. It's with his right hand, but it's sharp nonetheless. Hit or miss, he makes a grab for the other's collar (his jacket), attempting to pull the fabric tight around the man just as he pulls the stubborn bastard toward his eye-level. ]

I don't care what sort of methods you want to employ against him, but that's not happening again, Sherlock, do you understand? And if I have to sit and watch you like a fucking nanny to make sure you don't go running off with your wing falling apart, I will do it. Let him run - he's not going to get very far. And with what he seems to be working at, he can't do much damage within the week.

[ The words fall out of him in a rush, and there's the lingering stare of seriousness, but there's something searching about the stare, too. ]

If you want nothing to do with me after the week's up, fine. But you'll do the week and you'll do it right. You owe me that.

[ For what it's worth. For what good it does, if Sherlock's going to go throw himself into danger again without him. ]