I do not own 'Sherlock' or any of the characters therein. I have only temporarily taken them out to play. Please don't sue. Thanks!
Captain John Watson, former doctor and soldier in Her Majesty's Royal Army Medical Corps, held his Browning L9A1 in his left hand, debating. He'd cleaned his weapon just hours before; dismantling, brushing, oiling, then putting it all back together again.
His weapon. His choice.
Cool metal, warmed by the grip of his hand, shook ever so slightly, showing the tremor he'd gained that had ruined his career. If he intended to proceed, he'd need a much steadier hand.
Sighing, John placed the safety back on and stored it once more in his desk.
Ella insisted he write in that infernal blog. About what? How his sister was slowly drinking herself to death? How his neighbor, Marcus Abernathy, had slit his wrists earlier that day, and how John had been the one to find him? Maybe he'd write about how angry he'd been that Marcus had given up. Or maybe that John had been jealous Marcus had the bollocks to actually go through with it?
No. He'd take a walk, grab a coffee, mail the letter to Harry he'd been meaning to send off.
One last look around the small bedsit that held the entirety of his life earned a sigh and a promise: He would swallow the hurt, work through the pain. Because somehow, some way, it HAD to get better.