Very, very short break from all my angstiness...
Thief
Perhaps it was the stress, or the fear, or the renewed pain in his leg from both, but when Sherlock steadily pulled the clean, black British Army R9A from his trouser pocket and held it at shoulder-length, aiming it at the head of the murderous man who held both their lives in his hands, the only thought passing through John's brain was:
How did that bloody no-good thief get into my locked desk?
