Don't own it. Never will. Not directly anyway. It would be awesome to consult one day... That day is not today.

Later, John would wish it was a mistake, or even better, compassion. He would search for an excuse for why the gun shifted slightly in his hand as it went off. He would try to ignore the memory of recalculating the shot, try to pretend he hadn't known what he was doing.

But he had. He was a Doctor, and even he had to admit he was a good one. He knew how to take pain away and how to inflict it.

Such a contradiction. He knew it annoyed Sherlock sometimes...

Still, he had shifted his aim, Sherlock's words dancing through his head.

All of them, all of the victims, had suffered...

...Everyone deserved a chance for last words, he smiled grimly. He fired. The bullet shattered the windows and tore through the cabbie's shoulder, missing his heart.

The wound would kill him. There was no doubt of that. But it would be slow.

The man should be happy, John gave him a chance to have last words. If those words happened to be telling Sherlock certain information that John had already deduced (really, one cabbie can't do this entirely without assistance, he isn't Sherlock Holmes, for goodness sake, and really, that was good. Sherlock would be a much more successful serial killer), John wouldn't be bothered.

He lowered his gun, the echoes of his time in Afghanistan ringing in his ears, the cries of wounded, broken, bleeding friends. He glanced down at his hands, still cradling the gun, and smiled.

His hands were steady.

He'd have to get a new gun after this. Luckily, he still had friends in high places. He would not regret the weapon in his hands and what he'd done with it, even if it meant pretending it was an accident, or that he'd been trying to shoot without fatalities...

Later, sending a fleeting glance in his companion's direction, a smile ghosted over John Watson's face. He was many things: a Doctor, a soldier, a colleague, a killer, a student, a brother, a son, a Captain, a hero, and so much more, yet, for the moment, none of that mattered.

For now, he had shed the many faces of John Watson and was simply a friend.

John woke up with a start, his hands flying to the gun on the bedside table. The screech of the violin was at once disturbing and familiar.

"Sherlock!"