John's Gun

By KathyG

This story is set not long after the events in "A Study in Pink" and following soon after the events in my story, "Background Check". John is wondering how he's going to deal with the fact that his military-issued handgun is now illegal. He's in for a surprise! (Thank you, Doomsteady and Jolie Black, for beta-reading my story!)

The door clicked shut behind John as he returned to 221B from his daily walk. Sherlock, he knew, was at Barts, conducting an experiment. It would probably be some hours before the consulting detective returned home. Trudging up the 17 steps, he entered the flat.

Emitting a deep sigh, John sank into his armchair; the mattress sank underneath him as he leaned back. The Union Jack cushion flattened against his lower back. It felt so good to be able to walk without a cane once more! That stupid bloody cane had made him feel so crippled.

After I've caught my breath, I'd better go upstairs and go through my paperwork, he thought, resting his arms on the armchair's rests. And I probably need to clean my gun while I'm at it. He glanced briefly at the window. At least the rain had stopped, and the sun had come out. The sunlight poured in through the window, forming a rectangle on the carpet. John smiled, and then looked at the teapot on the kitchen counter. When I'm finished upstairs, I'll make myself a cup of tea. He dropped his hands into his lap.

For the next several minutes, he reclined there, his hands clasped in his lap, reflecting on the events of the last several months, from the day he had been shot while treating a seriously wounded soldier during a retrieval mission to the days after he had moved into the flat with Sherlock. So much had happened within that time! Being shot while attempting to stabilize the injured soldier; waking up in Selly Oak Hospital after being in a coma for several days (he didn't even remember being a patient in the hospital at Camp Bastion, or the flight back to England); the operations and all the rehab he'd had to undergo; the life-threatening complications he had been forced to endure; being discharged; and moving into a London bedsit in the East End and then, two months later, into 221B Baker Street with Sherlock, where he had immediately started solving crimes with his new flatmate.

Shifting position, John furrowed his eyebrows. And speaking of which—I can't remember why I still had my gun when I was discharged. It should have been taken off of him, as he knew, but since he had been still in the RAMC when he had been sent to England from Camp Bastion, apparently, no one had thought to do that. After all, once his shoulder had been operated on and his condition had been stabilised at Camp Bastion, he had been sent by plane to an airport in England, and then he had been taken by ambulance straight to Selly Oak. He wouldn't have been required to turn in his service weapon until his discharge. My gun must have been packed with the rest of my possessions the whole time.

John frowned. It had helped enormously that he had had his gun when Jefferson Hope had tried to kill Sherlock; he would never have been able to save the consulting detective's life otherwise. It also helped that he felt safer with his handgun that he did without it. After all, during his three years in the army, even though he had been a non-combatant, he had still needed a way to defend himself and his patients, especially on retrieval missions, and so he had come to feel secure only when he had it on him. Alas, it had not helped that John had had it when he had lived in his bedsit, because he had been so depressed and sorely tempted to commit suicide. Over and over again during that time, he had taken his gun out of the drawer and thought about using it to blow his brains out; only meeting Sherlock had prevented him from ending his life, in the end. And the fact remained that since he was discharged, his possession of his army handgun was now illegal, even though it was most likely recorded in the army database as having been lost in Afghanistan. If the police ever found out that John still had his army gun, he would be facing five years in prison, at the very least—possibly ten. Plus, he might have to pay a heavy fine on top of that. He had been worrying about that for weeks now, unsure as to what the solution might be. Or even if there was a viable solution. He bit his lower lip as he pondered his dilemma; meanwhile, the clock ticked softly in the background.

The ex-army doctor sighed. After his discharge, he should have turned it in as soon as he had realized he still had it on him, but the police would have never believed that it was an honest mistake. Even though it was; I never even knew I still had it until I had moved to my new bedsit, he thought. Somehow, it had remained on him when he had been helicoptered to Camp Bastion and then sent from there to Selly Oak, after which it had remained with his possessions right up to the day he had been discharged. Furthermore, no one had ever thought to ask John to turn it in, once his discharge had been made official.

After all, I was so used to having it on me at all times, both on and off base; it never occurred to me not to have it on me, he thought, scratching his right arm. He had been so preoccupied with his injuries, his complications, his rehabilitation, and then his discharge and his move to a bedsit, that he had never even thought about his gun until he had moved into that bedsit, and by then, it had been too late. He had never even noticed that he still had the gun until he had started unpacking his things. Doing the right thing at that point and turning it back in would have only got me arrested and sent to prison, he thought ruefully.

John shook his head.Even though it was illegal for him to do so now, he could see no other way but to hold onto his gun and to try to keep it a secret. Sherlock knew about it, but John knew that he wouldn't tell anyone. It's possible that Lestrade also knows, but as long as he doesn't lay eyes on it, he probably won't do anything to me. At any rate, I may as well clean and polish it now, and then go over my paperwork. At least it'll give me something to do while I'm waiting for Sherlock to come home. And then I'm going to make some tea.

Sighing again, John rose to his feet, left the living room, and slowly lumbered up the creaking stairs toward his bedroom. As he stepped through the door, to his surprise, he found the gun lying on his full-size bed next to a folded sheet of paper and a box of bullets. He hadn't lain it there when he had left his bedroom that morning! What on earth—?!

Frowning, John hurried toward the neatly-made bed and picked up the gun, examining it closely. This gun was not his! It didn't have the scars, the markings, that his own gun had. It wasn't even a SIG Sauer P226 standard, such as was issued to all non-combatants in the army; this was a Browning! And it had been freshly cleaned and polished. Checking it, he saw that it was unloaded.

Shaking his head, John laid the handgun down and picked up the crisply-folded piece of paper. As he unfolded it, a plastic card dropped out and landed on the bed. He gaped down at the card: it was a handgun permit! Turning back to the sheet of paper, he immediately recognized Mycroft's immaculate handwriting. Silently, he read:

Dear John:

I've been well aware since the night we met that you've been carrying an illegal army handgun. I haven't done anything about it because I realize that you didn't know, upon your discharge, that you still had it, and that the emotional trauma and the issues you were confronted with at the time so consumed you that you didn't even have time to think about your gun. I also realize that you were aware that turning your gun in as soon as you had known about it would have probably got you arrested.

I have taken the liberty of confiscating your old army gun and its bullets, and issuing you a brand-new one, complete with new bullets; I have also taken the liberty of issuing you a permit to carry it. If you're going to watch my brother's back when he's out on cases, you're going to need a weapon; I know that. However, since the army needs its gun back, I am going to return it for you. This new one will give you and Sherlock all the protection you need, and the permit will protect you from arrest and imprisonment and fines. Unlike your old gun, this one's a Browning L9A1.

Sincerely,

Mycroft

Simultaneously smiling and shaking his head, John picked up the permit and examined it closely, pressing his thumb against its smooth surface. It contained his army photograph and his signature; somehow, Mycroft must have got a copy of both. After he had inserted the new permit into his leather wallet next to his military I.D. and stuffed his wallet back into his back jeans pocket, he opened his drawer and laid his new gun and bullets inside; he refolded Mycroft's note and laid it on the dresser against the mirror. Having a flatmate whose brother was the British Government certainly came in handy at times like these! Mycroft was right: John would most definitely need a gun if he was going to protect Sherlock. He had already had to use his old gun to save Sherlock once already, and there were sure to be times when he would have to use his new one to ward off an attacker.

I'll have to thank Mycroft when I get the chance, he thought. Still smiling, he switched on the overhead light, reopened his drawer, and withdrew a stack of NHS papers, laying them on the desk. As he perched on the hard-backed chair, he silently groaned. I'll be so glad when this job is over!

XXXXXXX

Author's Note: Did you ever wonder how, given the tight handgun-control laws that Great Britain now has, that John has been able to get away with having his own handgun? And a military handgun, no less! Furthermore, according to wellingoose's great Web site, which can be found on http colon forward slash forward slash wellingtongoose dot tumblr dot com and http colon forward slash forward slash wellingtongoose dot livejournal dot com, John's military-issued gun is a SIG Sauer P226 standard; in "The Great Game", however, Moriarty identifies it as a Browning. So either Moriarty incorrectly identified John's gun or, somehow, his original handgun was replaced with a Browning. This story seeks to provide a solution to both issues.

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