In this universe, I own a very real gun, and a supply of real ammunition—not blanks. These items were issued to me before filming started. I want to ask Mycroft about it, but I haven’t seen him yet; the scene where he abducts me is going to be filmed out of order. I suppose the gun would have to be real in case Sherlock gets hold of it, but surely the better option would be just not to have a gun at all. I wonder whether anyone else has a real gun.
The case of the serial suicides clicks along, Sherlock putting things together, until, suddenly, he’s—gone again. He disappears while we’re waiting for the tracking service on Jennifer Wilson’s phone to load up. I peer out the window and see him get into cab.
“He’s gone,” I say. “He went off in a cab.”
Everybody relaxes fractionally, knowing we’re no longer on camera. We all look at each other, trying to figure out what to do next, when Mrs. Hudson pops her head in.
“What are you lot standing around for?” she asks. “He’s just gone off with the killer. Somebody has to follow him.”
At this point, the laptop starts chiming, and we all turn to look at it. The phone trace. The cab. Christ, we really are all idiots.
“John’s supposed to be his new bestie, I think he should go after him,” Lestrade says. The others nod.
“Have you got your sidearm?” asks Mrs. Hudson.
I’m feeling lost. “Uh, sorry, why do we have to follow him?”
“Because he’s with the killer,” Sally says, as though I’m the dimmest thing since nighttime.
“But he’s…not really a killer?”
“But Sherlock thinks he is,” Lestrade says, “which means something’s got to happen. Something dangerous, or he might get suspicious.”
“Or worse, lose interest,” Sally says.
“Shit,” I say. Then, as things sink in: “Shit. Okay, fine, yes, what do I do?”
“There’s a cab waiting,” says Mrs. Hudson. “The driver has the phone trace on GPS.”
“We’ll bring the cops a few minutes behind, give you time to do something cool before we get there.”
“John! Hurry up!” Mrs. Hudson all but shoves me out of the flat, and I get into the fake taxi.
On the ride across town, I take out the handgun. It’s—it’s pretty much my old gun, a Sig Sauer P226R, British Army equipment designation L106A1. This is the gun they give you when you go to Afghanistan. It feels terribly familiar in my hand. It was loaded when I got it, and still is. I’m pretty sure John Watson would not actually carry around a loaded pistol in his everyday life—I wouldn’t—but these are the facts in this moment. I make sure the safety is on before I tuck it back into the back of my waistband. I drum damp fingers on the tops of my thighs. My hands feel extremely steady.
Fill Part 8
In this universe, I own a very real gun, and a supply of real ammunition—not blanks. These items were issued to me before filming started. I want to ask Mycroft about it, but I haven’t seen him yet; the scene where he abducts me is going to be filmed out of order. I suppose the gun would have to be real in case Sherlock gets hold of it, but surely the better option would be just not to have a gun at all. I wonder whether anyone else has a real gun.
The case of the serial suicides clicks along, Sherlock putting things together, until, suddenly, he’s—gone again. He disappears while we’re waiting for the tracking service on Jennifer Wilson’s phone to load up. I peer out the window and see him get into cab.
“He’s gone,” I say. “He went off in a cab.”
Everybody relaxes fractionally, knowing we’re no longer on camera. We all look at each other, trying to figure out what to do next, when Mrs. Hudson pops her head in.
“What are you lot standing around for?” she asks. “He’s just gone off with the killer. Somebody has to follow him.”
At this point, the laptop starts chiming, and we all turn to look at it. The phone trace. The cab. Christ, we really are all idiots.
“John’s supposed to be his new bestie, I think he should go after him,” Lestrade says. The others nod.
“Have you got your sidearm?” asks Mrs. Hudson.
I’m feeling lost. “Uh, sorry, why do we have to follow him?”
“Because he’s with the killer,” Sally says, as though I’m the dimmest thing since nighttime.
“But he’s…not really a killer?”
“But Sherlock thinks he is,” Lestrade says, “which means something’s got to happen. Something dangerous, or he might get suspicious.”
“Or worse, lose interest,” Sally says.
“Shit,” I say. Then, as things sink in: “Shit. Okay, fine, yes, what do I do?”
“There’s a cab waiting,” says Mrs. Hudson. “The driver has the phone trace on GPS.”
“We’ll bring the cops a few minutes behind, give you time to do something cool before we get there.”
“John! Hurry up!” Mrs. Hudson all but shoves me out of the flat, and I get into the fake taxi.
On the ride across town, I take out the handgun. It’s—it’s pretty much my old gun, a Sig Sauer P226R, British Army equipment designation L106A1. This is the gun they give you when you go to Afghanistan. It feels terribly familiar in my hand. It was loaded when I got it, and still is. I’m pretty sure John Watson would not actually carry around a loaded pistol in his everyday life—I wouldn’t—but these are the facts in this moment. I make sure the safety is on before I tuck it back into the back of my waistband. I drum damp fingers on the tops of my thighs. My hands feel extremely steady.