Sherlock: Peacemaker
Title: Peacemaker
Fandom: Sherlock
Author:
mad_maudlin
Characters: John, Sherlock, Anderson, Lestrade
Warnings: quasi-unrealistic use of a gun
Summary: John solves a minor dispute.
A/N: Another kink meme fill. For more information: Colt Single-Action Army.
Peacemaker
by Mad Maudlin
The murder: a gunshot wound to the head. The suspect: a resentful neighbor. The motive, means, and opportunity were there. The weapon, however, was not.
"So what if there's powder in the barrel?" Anderson said, and John wondered if that tone of voice ever accomplished anything for the man ever. "That only proves he fired it, not that he hit anything. You're talking about a head shot over the length of a cricket pitch with an antique revolver."
Sherlock looked like he was on the verge of violence, or perhaps some sort of hysterical tantrum. "It is the only solution that fits all of the facts! Moorehead has the necessary skill--"
Even Lestrade was looking dubious. "Yeah, but with this thing?" He glanced at the revolver in the evidence bag. "It's got to be a hundred years old."
"Seventy-six," Sherlock corrected.
"Oh, and I suppose you deduced that from the degree of wear of the hammer?" Anderson asked contemptuously.
"No, I looked up the serial number on the Internet--please keep away from that, by the way, there's enough stupidity to go around without your contribution." Sherlock rounded on Lestrade. "I repeat: Moorehead belonged to a gun club. He kept this weapon in pristine condition, and the ammunition recovered with it was unsuitable for any of his other weapons. It's so obvious as to be trivial. I'll even demonstrate."
So that was why he'd insisted on calling this meeting at a firing range; John had wondered. "And if you're wrong?" Anderson asked.
Sherlock gave him an icy glare. "I'm not wrong."
Anderson snorted. "Right. I'll just go hold the target up for you."
"Don't tempt me."
John had, of course, entirely faded into the background by this point, and didn't mind; it was the middle of the night and he hadn't the patience for anyone's ego, least of all Sherlock's. But when Lestrade decided it was time to physically interpose himself between Sherlock and Anderson, he apparently was wise enough not to do so with a weapon in hand, even one sealed in an evidence bag: he shoved the revolver at John, then planted on palm on Sherlock's chest and said, "Look here, you're the one who called us down here--"
John tuned the rest of the argument out. The revolver was surprisingly heavy, but just as Sherlock said, it was clean and well-maintained. A Colt Single Action Army, made in America and brought over by God only knew who. It appeared to be chambered for a .45 round--yes, there was another evidence bag with a package of cartridges, these brand-new. The right size for the hole in the victim's skull, given the distance. But that supposed this gun was accurate enough to make a headshot at that range.
Anderson was attempting to reach around Lestrade and shake his finger at Sherlock, or perhaps poke him in the eye. John sighed, and hunted up a pair of latex gloves.
He didn't have much experience with revolvers, of course, but he found it easy enough to load; he swung the barrel back into position, and pressed the buttons that brought up a paper target at the end of the range, as far back as it would go. There was a squeak of shoe leather on tile somewhere behind him, and a yelp, which he ignored. Instead he settled himself into a comfortable stance, the revolver in his right hand, the left hand held above to fan the hammer.
Six quick shots boomed through the firing range, and in the aftermath the only sound was John carefully putting the revolver back into the bag.
When he turned around, Anderson, Lestrade and Sherlock appeared to have frozen in place, arms still tangled, Sherlock's scarf half-undone. "Well?" Sherlock demanded, twisting free of Lestrade's grip.
John shrugged. "It fires well enough. Moorehead's probably the murderer. Can I please go back to the flat now?"
Lestrade snatched the revolver out of John's hands, then called the target forward. In the center of the outline's head, the six bullets had eaten out a small, ragged circle. He looked at John incredulously. "I...er..."
"There," Sherlock said, pointing. "Exactly that. Ronald Moorehead only had to be half as accurate to make his kill shot. Now quit manhandling me and go arrest the old misanthrope before he decides to behead the paperboy for his next trick."
As they plodded out of the range, the last thing John heard was Anderson sputtering "How--but--hang on--" somewhere behind him.
Fandom: Sherlock
Author:
mad_maudlin
Characters: John, Sherlock, Anderson, Lestrade
Warnings: quasi-unrealistic use of a gun
Summary: John solves a minor dispute.
A/N: Another kink meme fill. For more information: Colt Single-Action Army.
Peacemaker
by Mad Maudlin
The murder: a gunshot wound to the head. The suspect: a resentful neighbor. The motive, means, and opportunity were there. The weapon, however, was not.
"So what if there's powder in the barrel?" Anderson said, and John wondered if that tone of voice ever accomplished anything for the man ever. "That only proves he fired it, not that he hit anything. You're talking about a head shot over the length of a cricket pitch with an antique revolver."
Sherlock looked like he was on the verge of violence, or perhaps some sort of hysterical tantrum. "It is the only solution that fits all of the facts! Moorehead has the necessary skill--"
Even Lestrade was looking dubious. "Yeah, but with this thing?" He glanced at the revolver in the evidence bag. "It's got to be a hundred years old."
"Seventy-six," Sherlock corrected.
"Oh, and I suppose you deduced that from the degree of wear of the hammer?" Anderson asked contemptuously.
"No, I looked up the serial number on the Internet--please keep away from that, by the way, there's enough stupidity to go around without your contribution." Sherlock rounded on Lestrade. "I repeat: Moorehead belonged to a gun club. He kept this weapon in pristine condition, and the ammunition recovered with it was unsuitable for any of his other weapons. It's so obvious as to be trivial. I'll even demonstrate."
So that was why he'd insisted on calling this meeting at a firing range; John had wondered. "And if you're wrong?" Anderson asked.
Sherlock gave him an icy glare. "I'm not wrong."
Anderson snorted. "Right. I'll just go hold the target up for you."
"Don't tempt me."
John had, of course, entirely faded into the background by this point, and didn't mind; it was the middle of the night and he hadn't the patience for anyone's ego, least of all Sherlock's. But when Lestrade decided it was time to physically interpose himself between Sherlock and Anderson, he apparently was wise enough not to do so with a weapon in hand, even one sealed in an evidence bag: he shoved the revolver at John, then planted on palm on Sherlock's chest and said, "Look here, you're the one who called us down here--"
John tuned the rest of the argument out. The revolver was surprisingly heavy, but just as Sherlock said, it was clean and well-maintained. A Colt Single Action Army, made in America and brought over by God only knew who. It appeared to be chambered for a .45 round--yes, there was another evidence bag with a package of cartridges, these brand-new. The right size for the hole in the victim's skull, given the distance. But that supposed this gun was accurate enough to make a headshot at that range.
Anderson was attempting to reach around Lestrade and shake his finger at Sherlock, or perhaps poke him in the eye. John sighed, and hunted up a pair of latex gloves.
He didn't have much experience with revolvers, of course, but he found it easy enough to load; he swung the barrel back into position, and pressed the buttons that brought up a paper target at the end of the range, as far back as it would go. There was a squeak of shoe leather on tile somewhere behind him, and a yelp, which he ignored. Instead he settled himself into a comfortable stance, the revolver in his right hand, the left hand held above to fan the hammer.
Six quick shots boomed through the firing range, and in the aftermath the only sound was John carefully putting the revolver back into the bag.
When he turned around, Anderson, Lestrade and Sherlock appeared to have frozen in place, arms still tangled, Sherlock's scarf half-undone. "Well?" Sherlock demanded, twisting free of Lestrade's grip.
John shrugged. "It fires well enough. Moorehead's probably the murderer. Can I please go back to the flat now?"
Lestrade snatched the revolver out of John's hands, then called the target forward. In the center of the outline's head, the six bullets had eaten out a small, ragged circle. He looked at John incredulously. "I...er..."
"There," Sherlock said, pointing. "Exactly that. Ronald Moorehead only had to be half as accurate to make his kill shot. Now quit manhandling me and go arrest the old misanthrope before he decides to behead the paperboy for his next trick."
As they plodded out of the range, the last thing John heard was Anderson sputtering "How--but--hang on--" somewhere behind him.