"Give it to me. Now"
"No."
"Don't be so stubborn. Give it to me. NOW !"
"I am not stubborn. You are being stubborn. And no, I am not giving it to you."
"John. Please. I am bored. That is my only entertainment."
In the flat upstairs, in 221B, Baker Street, two men were fighting over a particular possession. It was a gun, an ordinary one. The two men seemed ordinary enough as flatmates, though if you spoke to them, you would find out that one of them thought of himself as a higher power, while the other was loyal to a fault. The taller, thinner man, with blue eyes, seemed to be begging, almost pleading, with the shorter man, the one who was gleefully smiling, to return to him a possession.
Before I go any further, let me tell you about them. The tall one was a consulting detective. The only consulting detective in the world. He was Sherlock Holmes, though, if you asked him who he was, he would most likely wave you away dismissively. He was a man who had solved countless baffling cases, and was almost always sought out by the Scotland Yard.
The shorter one was an army doctor, John H. Watson, who was suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after fighting in Afghanistan. Or so he thought, till he met Sherlock Holmes. Now, his PTSD gone, he was cursing himself for even being an acquaintance to this eccentric man, even though this eccentric man had given him fodder enough to write on his blog, and helped him stay away from his therapist. But today was not one of those days, when they would be out in the alleyways of London, solving crimes. Today was one of those days, when Sherlock decided that the wall had it coming. He was shooting at the wall, for no apparent reason. Well, the reason was there, but it was not reason enough to destroy the walls of their landlady, who had almost come to being a mother figure to them, Mrs. Hudson.
"John. I promise I will not shoot at the walls. Do give me the gun."
" No Sherlock. Somehow, I don't trust you with anything dangerous, like guns. Especially if they are mine."
"John. Don't be silly."
"Me? Silly? You are silly. You almost shot me when I came up, carrying two arms full of grocery for the week. And you call me silly after that? You are mad."
"Please?"
"No. Why are y-"
John's question was cut off midway, because Sherlock had decided that getting the gun by force would be his next best option. He had inched slowly towards john, taking care that he did not notice him doing so. Then when the moment was right, he whipped out a long, thin, pale hand, and pulled john by his knee.
Obviously, John was not expecting this, so when Sherlock pulled him by the knee, he lost his balance, and fell atop the consulting detective. He heard a groan from under, but did not fail to notice that the detective was desperately trying to pry the gun out of the doctor's hands. John tightened his grip on the gun, determined to not let go. He rolled off the detective's back, worried that he might have cracked or broken something. He hadn't.
By the looks of the fight, a tug of war was imminent. John held the grip, while Sherlock tugged at the muzzle. Both were careful enough to see that the safety was on.
"Stop shooting at walls!"
"Start entertaining me!"
"Is that a threat?"
"Yes it is!"
Finally, the detective let go of the muzzle, and sat back. He wore the expression of one who had been defeated in a war of wits, against a particular man known as Anderson. John gave a triumphant crow, and brandished the gun, right out of the detective's reach. His finger just brushed past the trigger, and a loud bang was heard.
The two men quickly became alert, and a little worried. Well, the doctor was worried, while the detective tried to hide a smile. They both looked towards the damaged wall.
There was another hole in the wall.