A/N: A converstation on the forums got me thinking about Homes first taking a life, and how it might affect him. This is such a little ficlet, and I may someday go more deeper into this issue, but for now, and as an apolgy for being so very absent lately, here is 300 words worth of Holmes angst! :)
"Many that live deserve death. And some die that deserve life. Can you give it to them?"
J. R. R. Tolkien
The taking of a life. Killing. Murder. In the name of justice? Or revenge, or love, or any of the countless reasons humans take the lives of other humans. Is there a difference between killing in the name of the law, and against it? Why am I, who pulled a trigger and sent a man to the grave, different from a murderer? We both had our reasons, why were mine better?
Logically I know I was protecting the people of London against a killer. The man would have slaughtered us, before turning to others. I was glad he hadn't the chance to do so.
But the scene played before my eyes. I knew the man was inside, and he had a young woman. I had my revolver, and when I heard her scream, I knew I could not wait for the police. I charged inside, and found her yet unharmed in the grip of the wild-eyed man. I ordered him to unhand her, but he pulled out a long knife. My eyes widened as he raised his arm to plunge in into the heart of the lady. I was too far. I shot to kill.
The memories danced in front of my eyes, obscuring the street facing the low wall on which I sat. My eyes stared at the mixture of crimson dripping from a hole in a man's chest, and the bay mares rushing by pulling a handsom cab. My shaking fingers still felt the gun, the trigger ever squeezing. My stomach churned at the smell of fresh blood.
I jerked at a hand on my shoulder. Lestrade peered at me.
"You alright, Mr. Holmes?"
I schooled my features.
"Fine," and I turned, heading to my room at Montague Street, and hoping my neighbors wouldn't be disturbed this night.
Thanks for reading! Now tell me what you think! :)
