Not only did it seem that there were bullets that had your name on them. The statement also seemed to apply to Crossbow Bolts as well. And that was really a lot not good.
John's relationships with Women had always ended in variations on the theme of disaster. But never had one date managed to go so spectacularly wrong. Then again he had never been on a double date with Sherlock and his Brain before. If John was cynical and he was certainly considering giving it a try in the very near future, he would think Sherlock had planned the whole thing in order to ruin his evening with Sarah. He sometimes wished he could just have a normal life.
John was tied to a chair, something that hadn't happened to him since Medical School, and certainly never whilst he was sober and still wearing trousers. Right there and then John really wished he was back at St. Bart's, 21 years old and duct-taped naked to the Pool Table.
He hoped Sarah wouldn't think he was a coward when he started pleading for their lives, asking "please, please, please don't kill us". On the outside John Watson was snivelling, begging, undignified. On the inside the razor sharp focus of the Soldier had kicked in once more. He was buying time. Time to think. Time to act. If his would-be murderers had taken a brief moment to really look at John they would have thought it strange that whilst his mouth was begging and his body was squirming, the hands that were tied to the chair were perfectly still. Sherlock would have noticed. Sherlock did notice.
Sarah was crying silently with fear. The sand rapidly emptying from the wound in the side of the hessian bag. He wasn't quite strong enough to break the chair, if he had been taller, bigger, bulkier, he might have done it. As it was John Watson, whose nickname in basic training had been "Funsize" had only one option left. He lurched forwards, trying to get in between Sarah and the crossbow. He wished he could have been just three inches taller.
xxxxx
"You do know if you had been three inches taller you'd be dead right now?" Sherlock looked down at his flatmate who was stuffing cold takeaway into his mouth, he assumed in some attempt to bring on a growth spurt.
"What?"
"Both times. If you had been three inches taller the bullet in your shoulder would have gone straight into your heart. The crossbow would have hit you in the side of the head."
"Oh." John shoved another forkful of noodles into his mouth.
"You do know it's very unlikely for an adult male to grow taller after they have reached thirty?"
"Really?"
"I think you are exactly the right height." Sherlock attempted his version of smiling.
"You do?"
"Yes, just perfect. Can I have a Prawn Cracker?" Sherlock slid down onto the sofa next to John.
After that John Watson stopped wishing for things he was never going to get.