He ran. Ran, from the crazed gunman behind him. John had a knife but he knew from the many war movies he watched, reminiscing about the old days, that you never, ever, brought a knife to a gunfight.

Well, he'd already stuffed that up. Nothing to do but run. Either until John ran out of breath, or, until Holmes put a bullet in him.

Holmes, the Sherlock Holmes. John though he was a genius. And messed up. Consulting detective. What a load of crap. Freak, as some of the bobbies affectionately called him, was a lot closer to the truth. He was truly a prodigy of intelligence. And he was being chased by him with a gun.

John thought about guns. About what they really meant and what they did. Taking it all in, guns put holes in people. That's the basis of killing people. Putting holes in them. Spears, bows and swords, when stabbed of course. Axes were meant to dismember people and some swords were was well. And maces, maces were meant to crush things. Well, apparently you don't have to put a hole in something to kill it.

John's wandering mind snapped back to running as he almost tripped and was almost shot at the same time. 'Shit', he gasped. John didn't usually curse or cuss or whatever you wanted to call it, however he though right now was a perfectly appropriate time.

He swung his head around to take a glimpse at him. Curly, long-ish, black hair, black trench coat. John felt a pang of fear. Was he going to die? He certainly hoped not.

John was shitting himself, in a metaphorical sense. He didn't quite know why he was being chased down, but rather the fact that it was his best friend hunting him down was more scary than interesting at what medical science can do. He still felt horrible. A long night drinking after celebrating a solved case was never good for him in the morning. It would have been better had Sherlock joined him. But no, Sherlock had decided to stay home and play with some chemicals. Now look what it had done!

John tripped. On a railway track. He was well and truly screwed now. He rolled over. He was standing there. Just standing there. The gun in his left hand, a Webley Mk IV .38/200, pointed in-between John's eyes. Wait, wasn't he a righty?

"This is the end of the road John."

"Why, Sherlock? WHY?!" John half surprised himself when he yelled.

"Because you've told everyone my secret John."

"WHAT FUCKING SECRET?! YOU NEVER TELL ME ANYTHING! AS FAR AS I'M FUCKING CONCERNED, YOU'RE ABOUT TO KILL ME FOR NO FUCKING REASON!"

"No need to yell and swear John, you may as well spend the last moments of your life as happy as possible."

"How could I be happy with a gun pointed at my head."

"I'd be happy, considering it's only a…"

John shuddered before Sherlock pulled the trigger. John heard the bang. Not as loud as he thought it'd be.

"… cap gun."

John awoke suddenly.

So this is basically a belated birthday present (sorry) that I randomly started to write and I wrote down whatever came into my head. Suggestions very welcome wanted. If it's good, please review. If it's bad, please review. Thanks!