Sherlock and John

Shotgun

'John, I need a cup of tea.' Sherlock says, setting himself into his chair, and proceeding to stare into the distance. His eyes flick from side to side, as if he was watching an invisible parade perform in front of his eyes. Our search at the train station was fruitless. Nobody matched the description.

'Fine. But Sherlock?' I ask, heading to the kitchen,

'Yes?'

'You don't just keep me as a friend to make you tea do you?'

'No John! Of course not! I keep you as a friend for many reasons, only one of those being that you make great tea. There's also the pivotal detail of you making me look much taller than I really am!'

'Oh.' I sigh, as I set the kettle down, brimming with water. It sloshes around, and some spills. Grumbling, I open random cupboard doors, trying to find a tea towel. In one if the cupboards, I pull out a few assortments of trinkets and devices, before reaching to the back and feeling around. My hand grasps on something cold and metallic.

Breathing heavily, I pull it out.

A gun.

'SHERLOCK!' I yell, keeping my eyes on the gun at all times. I don't know how it got here. Sherlock and I barely ever use the things, and the mere thought of them sends shivers up my leg.

Sherlock makes his way over, then pushes me out that way. He picks up the gun and holds it.

'The killer is still here.' He says, turning the gun over and over in his hand.

'Killer? What killer?' I ask, backing up against a wall. Something about the thought of someone being in our house really doesn't appeal to me.

'The killer for the murder that will happen about.......now.'

A shot echoes through our ear and we both run to the window just in time to watch a woman crumple in the middle of the street. Her handbag falling to the floor.

'John!' Sherlock barks. 'Go check up on the victim. The murderer obviously shot from here, so I am going to look for him before he goes again. Is that clear?'

I nod my head, and run down the steps. Mrs Hudson is out. Thank god.

------------------------------------------------------

'Dead.' I say, holding two fingers to her wrist. I had to battle my way through a crowd of people to get to her, and before I could do anything her heart slowed to a stop.

She's very pretty, but her white, porcelain face is contrasted by the deep red blood that oozes from her head. She was shot right there, and the bullet went straight to her brain, and killed her.

'I knows her I does,' rings out a voice from the crowd. An old woman steps forward, her head hanging in sorrow. 'She was a curator at the museum. Wouldn't hurt a fly. More hard working and strong than anyone I've ever met. Poor thing was devastated when that body was found.'

A gun shot rings through the air, and the woman collapses.

Blood dripping from her skull.

She's been shot in the head.

'SHERLOCK!' I scream, unable to cope with the wails of the crowd as they run away. Police cars pull up alongside the street and ambulances arrive.

But there is nothing that they can do.

'John!' Shouts a voice, and Sherlock breaks through the crowd, and ends up by my side. He kneels down, avoiding the pool of blood and takes my face in his hands.

'John. Are you alright?'

'Fine... Fine.'

'John. I know you.' His voice softens.

'You're not.'