Of course he'd be the type to not care about the gun trained right on him.
Sherlock's fingers tightened on the handle of the gun. He called for him to drop the machete, to step back, to stop what he was doing – but his story continued as he was quickly cornering John. He glanced between the two, sidestepping so that Sam was in his view constantly.
He thought they were in the clear once John had him held – but no, it seemed they both underestimated this man. Before he could back up John, Sam broke the hold, and that awful sound of metal slicing flesh sounded, and-
It barely took a millisecond after for the gunshot to echo in the frozen chamber. The bullet ripped straight through the butcher's shoulder – the same exact one that he had injured on John. It was almost so precisely similar, that one might think Sherlock was collected enough to calculate the exact way to achieve it.
While the shot had felled Sam to his knees, it wasn't enough. Sherlock brought the butt of the gun down on his face (with enough force to fracture his jaw), kicking him down. The gun's point dug into Sam's neck, pressing hard enough to leave an imprint. Sherlock's eyes were wide, and his fingers became iron in the bloodied apron he wore. He needlessly thudded Sam's head into the concrete floor with what almost sounded like a crack.
“I will tell you now, that you will be lucky if you leave this room alive,” Sherlock said, his voice madly steady at first, before gradually becoming a growl.
He looked over his shoulder at John while Sam was dizzied. Sherlock felt a violent fury flow through his limbs, and he found himself analyzing every little way he could make Sam suffer, repay the damage he dealt John tenfold - but instead he shoved him over, pulling handcuffs from his pocket (undoubtedly Lestrade's as well), capturing his hands in the metal links before rushing to John.
"I'm calling for help right now," Sherlock said, his sentence rushed as he fumbled for his phone and began to dial Lestrade. "Don't move!"
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Sherlock's fingers tightened on the handle of the gun. He called for him to drop the machete, to step back, to stop what he was doing – but his story continued as he was quickly cornering John. He glanced between the two, sidestepping so that Sam was in his view constantly.
He thought they were in the clear once John had him held – but no, it seemed they both underestimated this man. Before he could back up John, Sam broke the hold, and that awful sound of metal slicing flesh sounded, and-
It barely took a millisecond after for the gunshot to echo in the frozen chamber. The bullet ripped straight through the butcher's shoulder – the same exact one that he had injured on John. It was almost so precisely similar, that one might think Sherlock was collected enough to calculate the exact way to achieve it.
While the shot had felled Sam to his knees, it wasn't enough. Sherlock brought the butt of the gun down on his face (with enough force to fracture his jaw), kicking him down. The gun's point dug into Sam's neck, pressing hard enough to leave an imprint. Sherlock's eyes were wide, and his fingers became iron in the bloodied apron he wore. He needlessly thudded Sam's head into the concrete floor with what almost sounded like a crack.
“I will tell you now, that you will be lucky if you leave this room alive,” Sherlock said, his voice madly steady at first, before gradually becoming a growl.
He looked over his shoulder at John while Sam was dizzied. Sherlock felt a violent fury flow through his limbs, and he found himself analyzing every little way he could make Sam suffer, repay the damage he dealt John tenfold - but instead he shoved him over, pulling handcuffs from his pocket (undoubtedly Lestrade's as well), capturing his hands in the metal links before rushing to John.
"I'm calling for help right now," Sherlock said, his sentence rushed as he fumbled for his phone and began to dial Lestrade. "Don't move!"