It was cold and smooth and bitterly metallic on his tongue. The sharp, acerbic smell of gunpowder and the heavy, greasy scent of gun oil were strong in his nostrils. All was set; all that remained was the catalyst. He closed his eyes.
It was said that when one was in Rome, one should do as the Romans. He lived in the company of ghosts now – parents, brother, wife, child, friend – why shouldn't he join them? Far less lonely in that world than this.
His finger rested on the trigger. Just one flicker . . . just one . . .
I have kept the ending deliberately vague. Those who don't like character death can have Watson put the revolver down and those who do like character death can have Watson pull the trigger.
Personally, I just like the image of Watson suspended in indecision, doing his own tribue to Hamlet's soliloquy.