"Here."
I look up to see a flask thrust in front of me. I grab it and take a long drink, the whiskey burning my throat, leaving me coughing and spluttering. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I nod my thanks to Lestrade.
"Does it ever get easier?" I ask him.
He shakes his head slowly. "No, Hopkins, and you should be worried if it does. All life should be respected, even a criminal's. If you can shoot someone, and feel no regret for it, you are as bad as they are."
We both stand. There is work to do.
