"Now Sherlock, isn't this a better stress reliever than destroying poor Mrs. Hudson's wallpapered drywall?"
"That remains to be seen," Sherlock replied stubbornly.
John sighed in exasperation. "Yes, well, I'll be in the next room while you get used to your gear."
True to his word, the good doctor stepped through the doorway, letting the heavy soundproofed door slam behind him with a sense of finality.
"Mr. Holmes, if you'll just step this way," the supervisor instructed.
"Interesting device, this," Sherlock noted, fiddling with the apparatus in his hands. The supervisor nodded stiffly, turning to confer with one of his assistants. He spun around just in time to see the ammunition fall to the ground out of Sherlock's firearm.
"Oh, oops," Sherlock winced. "I'm so terribly sorry, I hope I'm not inconveniencing you," he apologized, reloading the gun. "Now, I'm to shoot at that wall right there?" He motioned toward the long concrete wall in front of him.
The supervisor nodded. "Yes, exactly."
"Is the room cleared? I would hate for anyone to get hurt," Sherlock groused.
"Only my trained assistants and us," the instructor assured his client.
"Wonderful. If I do hit anyone, I suggest you quickly vacate the room before you become my next victim!" he said, before breaking into a nervous grin.
The supervisor chuckled. "I doubt I will be doing much running, then, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock nodded, adjusting his stance and taking careful aim. His finger very quickly pulled the trigger and a crisp shot rang out.
The projectile landed a perfect bullseye as an assistant screamed.
Another assistant fell to the ground with an expression of horror and red spattered across his uniform.
Through the chaos rang the sound of Sherlock reloading his rifle.
"You really shouldn't have been quite so confident, Mr. Schwarz. Either you had no clue that an assistant would run across the range, or you must have believed I could not and would not shoot a man in cold blood after an initial accident.
"However," and Sherlock smirked, "the pistol in your belt would say otherwise, especially considering that it is directly next to your cell phone, which, as noted when borrowing it, has the police on speed dial and should be in your locker. In addition, you were unable to mask the distinctive smell of gunpowder on what should have been an airsoft rifle. Finally, you made no move toward your bulletproof vest-clad hire, even though he has such a close resemblance to you that he can be nothing but your own brother."
The supervisor stumbled a step back, his voice taking on a defensive tone. "You are assuming that I knew that would happen. What about the first possibility?"
"Your handgun, phone, and lack of reaction disprove that. Also," Sherlock lifted and levelled the gun, "I can," the distinctive crack of a shot followed by the click of a reload and an assistant fell, "and would," another sharp report, click, and thud, "easily." He smiled coldly. "John!"
The supervisor's expression of triumph was stifled as the assistant creeping up behind Sherlock was knocked aside by a heavy-handed right hook. A few moments later, Sherlock fired once more and the supervisor slid limply to the ground.
"Wait," John breathed in horror as Sherlock emptied his pockets. "Are these 'paintballs' just bullets painted over? And—are those the empty shells you were collecting yesterday?" John asked with a touch of disbelief.
In answer, Sherlock replied, "Certain gases are rather effective at knocking out all those in range, especially when mixed with powdered iron and red food coloring and set to explode upon contact."
John groand. "So this was what, a smuggling ring and a plot to defame and besmirch your name with murder?"
"Elementary, my dear Watson. Now, shall we make use of Mr. Schwarz's mobile phone? Hold down five, it's the most touched but least used key on the device."
Sighing, John did so.
"Oh, and John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"Today was… somewhat entertaining."
John wry laugh sounded strained as he ripped off his protective gear piece by piece. "Yeah? It's usually not half as dangerous or threatening when you're actually paintballing with an airsoft gun, not an actual rifle that some lunatic hands you in an attempt to make you kill someone."
Sherlock sniffed with disdain, placing his firearm on the long table.
"Pity."