BANG!
I jumped as a loud explosion went off behind me, setting my teeth and continuing to write.
BANG!
Honestly, sometimes in this household it was next to impossible to get anything done, much less something that required deep concentration like –
BANG!
…like writing.
BANG!
In the three months that I had taken up lodgings with this fellow, Sherlock Holmes, I had grown accustomed to many strange habits the fellow evidently cherished. But this was very much the worst.
My nerves had been shot to pieces in the Afghan War. Hence, when I found one of my new fellow-lodger's eccentricities was to fire off a revolver indoors – at the wall, yes! – it was not a pleasant –
BANG!
…pleasant realisation.
BANG!
I threw down my pen.
"Honestly, Holmes! This is not an indoor firing range!"
He started.
"My apologies, Doctor, I had quite forgotten you were there," he said uncomfortably.
"What the devil are you doing?"
"Practicing, naturally!" he said, miffed.
I stared incredulously.
"You mean you can't hit a target from across the room?"
"I can hit it, but not dead-on," he growled defensively.
I smiled before I could stop myself. Piqued, he glared at me.
"I suppose you could do better?"
Ten minutes later I was staring at a slammed door. Honestly, some men cannot handle their pride being bruised.