Disclaimer: I do not own anything having to do with the BBC or the Sherlock series.
"You do not trust your hands, Doctor."
It was their first case together after Sherlock had come back from the dead and John was torn among fear, rage, hurt, hatred, happiness, relief and something that felt like that word that started with an "l" and that John refused to associate with Sherlock.
John gazed down at his paper and at the wavy lines outlining the walls and doorways of the building that he had drawn upon it. He pulled the pen point away from the paper, noticing the scratch marks of ink were it had been resting. The pen quivered in John's loose grip.
"Christ, John, just give it here," Sherlock said as he grabbed the pad of paper from the place on the table in front of John and plucked the pen from the other man's fingers. Sherlock plopped the pad of paper in front of himself and began to draw the schematics of the crime scene over John's original lines. He marked the point at which he calculated the shooter was standing with the word killer. His agile fingers created quick, graceful arcs marking the course of five fired bullets and added, in his spidery script, the formulas of trajectory for each shot. He marked the bodies as variables using a naming system very familiar to John after reading so many of Sherlock's own notes. The first, and only female body, was named "B1f " while the second, third and forth bodies were scored "B2m ," "B3m" and "B4m ." Sherlock marked the blood spatter of each hit to a body with nearly transparent dotted lines. He mumbled softly to himself as he speckled the shooter's area with small dots to signify that the first and second shot to the closest victim, the woman, had caused blood to alight upon the shooter himself. When he finished precisely speckling the shooter's area with small spots of ink, he signed the bottom right hand corner of the page with a flourish and proceeded to write something in very small lettering underneath. John could not read the words from his vantage point to Sherlock's left.
"There, that ought to work for your team of bumbling dunderheads, Lestrade," Sherlock exclaimed, throwing down the pen. "Oh, and the killer was a man with some sort of personal connection to the female victim. He's obviously a professional gunman, although recreationally," Sherlock said as he stood and stalked from the room. Sally Donovan gave a derisive chuckle from the corner of the room. Sherlock's head popped into view around the edge of the door frame, "And he's recently acquired a tabby." Sherlock withdrew from the room once more.
John leaned over to read what Sherlock had written under his tightly scrawled signature. John's eyes widened slightly as he read the words "with attributing artist Doctor John Watson." His hands felt slightly clammy as he pushed himself up from his seat with the assistance of the tabletop and grasped his cane handle.
First clearing his throat, John said, "Update us if anything new crops up."