Disclaimer: It all belongs to ACD and the Beeb.
Notes: Written because I have not seen this issue addressed in the fandom yet, and obviously someone had to.
This is a 221B fic, that is, a Holmes-fandom style of drabble with 221 words, the last of which begins with B.
When Death Is on the Line
John knew what was going on as soon as he saw the two bottles of pills. He'd seen it before. It was even funny, for a twisted value of funny.
Hell, he thought, I bet the guy's name is Vizzini. He snorted.
It was painfully obvious, though, that Sherlock had never seen The Princess Bride.
His flatmate, despite being some kind of genius, was apparently also an idiot, because he had chosen one of the bottles and actually seemed to be about to ingest the pills. John clearly didn't have a lot of time to work with.
He lined up the shot, spared a passing thought for the irony of the situation (I guess this makes me the Man in Black.), and fired.
He was gone almost before the body hit the floor.
In the aftermath, they went out for dinner. John reflected that, maybe once, this would have seemed odd or disturbing. But he'd learned quickly in Afghanistan that you ate when you were hungry, or when you could grab a bite, and food after killing was perfectly normal. Don't over think it.
When they got back to the flat, John went straight for his collection.
"Dinner and a movie, John?" Sherlock asked wryly. "People will talk."
"Shut up," said John. "You really need to watch The Princess Bride."