Sherlock was certainly reprimanding himself now, for foolishly underestimating their killer. A lanky young man, making chemicals in his basement? He shouldn't have been so strong; so willing to take on two people at once with the confidence that he'd make it out alive. He was proving to be more difficult than he thought.

Which was why Sherlock was glad he brought the gun. But it only had one shot in it. (He made a quick mental note to add 'bullets' to the grocery list later.)

He pulled it out of his coat, shaking the dizziness from the punch out of his head. His shot was blocked by chunks of hanging meat, now swinging from the commotion. Sherlock's sense were flooded - the scent of decay, the frigidity stilling his fingers, the ache in his jaw, keeping focus on Sam, dodging meat as he tried to line a shot to Sam's shoulder.

"Don't you move, Sam!" he warned.