Prompt: An interesting exchange in Chapter 7 of SIGN:
(Holmes) "You have not a pistol, have you?"
"I have my stick."
"It is just possible that we may need something of the sort if we get to their lair. Jonathan I shall leave to you, but if the other turns nasty I shall shoot him dead."
He took out his revolver as he spoke, and, having loaded two of the chambers, he put it back into the right-hand pocket of his jacket.

Interesting for several reasons - one, why does Holmes carry his bullets separate from his gun? (Sorry, I keep seeing Barney Fife flashbacks here, lol) And why only load two of the chambers?
Second, we always talk of Watson being the better shot, which is certainly possible. But if you think about it, Holmes could not have been bad himself if he was able to make the initials V.R. on the wall of the sitting room. Why do we rarely hear of Holmes's shooting anything in the Canon, when from this exchange he was obviously more than capable and certainly prepared to?
Obviously, each of these ideas would take a different mood, humorous or potentially otherwise. Your choice.

A/N: My apologies for the extremely late update, everyone! I was writing essays, of all things. I mean, nonfiction? Come on. But, you know, it's for school (even though school hasn't even STARTED yet) so I kinda had to do it... but I'm back now! #readers groan#

This really doesn't have a plot, I'm afraid... I tried to explain in an interesting way, but nothing actually happens, really.

The thing about bullets is, they can kill so very easily.

Sherlock Holmes knew this well. He had seen it, as in his profession it was really rather difficult to keep away from it. It had struck him, in an unusually poetic sense, how easy it would be to end a man's life with a single bullet. Guns could be used in crimes of passion, they could be used in premeditated murder. They could be fired accidentally (which is why, when he carried a gun with him, he never loaded the chambers if he did not have a very good reason to believe that he would need to use it). But accidents did not happen as often as murder.

It was different, for a man to be killed with a gun than with a knife, or with a more creative tool of destruction. They could kill, certainly, but there was not that sense of detachment that was present with a gun. And guns just made it so very, very easy.

Holmes knew that as far as self-defense went, it would be wise to carry a gun at times, and be able to use it. And indeed he was an excellent marksman--he made sure of that, with his semi-regular practice (which was rather detrimental to Mrs. Hudson's walls, but proved that he was indeed capable of hitting his mark). But the psychology of the gun was what made him wary of it, even when it was in his hand. When he faced dangerous criminals he always made a point of taking them alive whenever possible. He armed himself with a weighted stick, usually, which served well as a weapon of defense, or he simply resorted to his fists, which were formidible on their own. He used his pistol as a club more often than he put it to its intended purpose.

Because it would be so easy to shoot the criminals--they were dangerous men, they were ruthless and cruel, and they would probably think nothing of killing him. Of course, he would be perfectly justified in using his gun to shoot down a man in self-defense. Many of the occasions in which he faced criminals called for self-defense. But still, he hesitated, because he knew how easy it would be to use his gun, to shoot and kill other men. Shooting into a wall is completely different from shooting into a person.

Holmes was not afraid of many things, but something about using a gun raised emotions from within him that he did not particularly wish to confront. He could see the line between necessary measures and needless killing, but he was afraid, deeply afraid, that when the time came the line would blur, and he would act more hastily than he ought.

He was afraid that wanting to pull the trigger and needing to pull the trigger would blend together, and he would make the wrong choice.

Holmes was careful with his weapon--he carried it with him, but he did not take it out with the intent to use it. When he did load it, he was often in the habit of loading only two of the chambers--if it came to shooting, he doubted that he would need a second shot, but he was certain that he would not require more.

Then Watson came, and Holmes found in him a solution--here was a man who had been to war, and who understood necessity. Watson was a kind man, and he did not like to see needless death any more than the next man, but he knew that when the time came for action, he would always know when it was necessary to pull the trigger; when it was necessary to wound or kill with the ease that a gun brought. For him, the line would never blur, because Watson was a man that would never hurt another human being unless he was left no other choice.

For a long time, Watson was the man to carry a gun in the partnership. Holmes was happy to keep it that way. He never admitted his fear to anyone, not even himself, though he knew that it was there. Perhaps someday, a voice inside him whispered, you will make the wrong choice. You will shoot because it is instinctual; because you want to, not because you need to. It was this lack of confidence in himself that made him wary of pointing guns at people, even dangerous people, who it may or may not be necessary to shoot--perhaps to kill.

And then there came a most singular, dangerous case, a case that was to Holmes both strangely humerous and utterly terrifying; a case that cost one man his reason, cost Watson a blood-letting, and cost yet another man the penalties of the law. The moment Evans fired those two shots, the moment Holmes saw Watson cringe, heard him let out an unconscious ejaculation of pain, he was already moving, throwing himself towards the counterfiter and bringing his pistol down on his head. His mind was blank during those moments--or perhaps it was simply too full, overflowing with a thousand scenarios, each more horrifying than the next; Watson had been hit, if Watson was hurt, if Watson was...

The next moment he was at Watson's side, leading him to a chair--the wound is in the leg, it cannot be life threatening, it can't, but what if--"For God's sake, say you are not hurt!"; rather more frantic than he would later care to admit.

"It's nothing, Holmes; it's a mere scratch."

Relief--pure, unadulterated relief. He was all right, everything was all right. What would he have done... Holmes rounded on Evans, the criminal who could so easily, so easily have taken Watson from him, who would have killed the best man Holmes had ever known without even knowing or caring what it was he was taking--Holmes pointed his pistol at the man who, to his mind and every shred of his insinct, did not deserve to live.

And he did not pull the trigger.

He pointed his gun at Evans with a steady hand, easily keeping him covered, but not shooting--not even contemplating shooting. And he knew that he would not kill Evans, and that he was in control--the line, which he had been so afraid would blur, remained crystal clear in his mind.

Another fact was crystal clear in his mind as well. "If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive."

Much later, sitting back in the comfort of Baker Street, the night's events as distant as a dream, Holmes held his gun in his hands and pondered.

A/N: ...That's not what my rough draft says at all.

Well, it still doesn't have a plot, but it's entirely different now. In my defense, I wrote it while I was asleep. I guess it can mean whatever you want it to mean... Sheesh, it wasn't supposed to be that dark. Anyway, um... I promise the next one will be more fun.