He levelled the gun to the other mans head, pulling the safety off, before placing his tightened finger on the trigger.
The man whimpered, probably begging for mercy, but his chase-addled brain refused to acknowledge it. Instead, he kept the gun there, on the mans temple, at an angle where it would exit a little below the other temple, the cold air creating crystallised forms of his breath as he exhaled, softly but quickly. It reminded him a bit about smoking, the way the smoke curled out of his mouth as he blew, creating fascinating shapes that were always different and so.. New.
"Please. Don't kill me"
Pathetic, weak little human. Why should he not kill this man? This man was quite willing to kill him, eager even. So why should he deny himself the luxury when offered.
He said nothing, however, just kept the gun at his forehead, thinking. He knew this man could not escape him anymore, not with two broken kneecaps, and a split shin. He could barely crawl, forget walk or run away. So he thought instead.
"Kill him". A voice inside urged. "Put him out of his misery. Kill him".
The voice of compassion. Always urging him to be as humane as possible to his.. Victims? Captors? Always telling him to show them mercy, to not stoop to their level.
"Leave him to suffer" the other voice. The one he was more used to, velveteen, soft, smooth in its texture as it rolled off his mind. He had succumbed to this voice ever so often, during the long, arduous chase to track down one man, the man who truly mattered.
Why should he show any sympathy to those who did not deserve it? He had shown enough kindness to people ago truly mattered, but this man, this low-life, who's master took away everything that mattered to him, why should he let him go without a little.. Fun?
Thinking thus, he lowered the gun to the man's foot, and shot through it once, revelling in the pained whimpers he heard. He enjoyed this? Is this what he had become, a man who lived off the pain of others, their misery, who did not hesitate to kill anyone?
"Please"
No mercy. No second chances. Perhaps, he would draw this out a little more. After all, he did have enough time, more than enough bullets, and knowledge of the human anatomy well enough to know where to cause pain without death.
He shot through the other foot too, the man now giving out half strangled cries and groans as his blood slowly swept across the snow, staining it a deep crimson, rich and startling in its colour. The same crimson that was splattered on the pavement when he fell, staining it, except that it was not so free flowing, or.. Bright. It was dark, and sticky. Dead blood.
He turned his attention back to the voices again. Kill him, or let him be? If he let him be, there might be a possibility that he would survive, but killing him would send a stronger message to the intended people, or person. He didn't really care anymore. The past few months after the fall had made him hardened beyond belief, beyond comprehensive reasons, too. People couldn't recognise him anymore. People didn't want to, and he was fine with that.
He watched the blood flow almost lazily across the snow, intermingling with the whiteness, creating a startling contrast of colours. Red and white, red as a rose, red as blood, red as the colour of the dawn sky, whirs as the clouds that graced the afternoon sun, white as light.
There can be no dark without light, no dull without bright, no black without white, no bad without nice. For they were the twp coin sides, two halves of a conscience. And his had to equally satisfied.
He raised his gun back to the mans temple. Enough of suffering, he thought, as he pulled the trigger once, shutting his eyelids for a nanosecond, then opening them in time to see the exiting bullet, the slumping body, falling sideways, the soft thud as it fell against the snow.
Snow would preserve the body until later, he mused as he thought of the next way of finding Moriarty.
Why was he doing this? Because Mycroft Holmes had suggested, ever so imperceptibly, that he should. That in going so, he might actually find Sherlock alive, instead of dead.
Doctor John H. Watson, ex-army doctor and retired captain of the fifth Northumberland Fusillade, strode away from the dead body, cleaning his gun, determined to track his next target, and reach his double edged goal. Goal of killing Moriarty, and seeing Sherlock again.