John was laughing hard. "Oh, wow. A man can change fast. What now, Sherly?" John said. Sherlock could smell his breath. He had the gun in his hand. And he shot him in the mouth. John slumped onto his lap, dead.
The police and ambulances came fast enough. They rushed him to the nearest hospital. Sherlock almost didn't make it. But after a few weeks, he was walking again. Half blind and with scars that could never heal, but still walking. He sold the house. Mrs. Hudson allowed him to move into the flat, since no one had bought it yet. The police force was rebuilt, and Sherlock was their consulting detective. He never had another friend, and stayed away from people from the military. He went to many therapists, but after a year, things settled down for him. And when they were all settled down, he actually managed to find a woman who did not care about his scars. And, although Sherlock was haunted by that day for the rest of his years, he sort of lived happily ever after.