Fingers
John
Everything about Sherlock Holmes was pale and stretched and elegant; his neck, his feet, his fingers...
And restless, he was always restless: his fingers, those long, graceful, white digits were always curling around his violin bow, tapping a rhythm on the arm of a chair or steepling together as he stared off lost in thought. They never seemed to stop as they shoved John's coat over his shoulders because he was being too slow or gripped his wrist pulling him to safety.
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Sherlock
Click.
Sherlock heard rather than saw John's fingers tighten on the trigger.
Around him the darkness was absolute.
Not that he needed light to see his friend.
He could picture it clearly.
John's tanned fingers pressed against cold, dark metal.
His hand completely still even as it levelled itself in the direction of their suspects footsteps.
BANG!
Thud.
A crackshot as always.