"You sure you trust me?" you asked, looking up at your tall companion.
His gray eyes sparkled, as he wrapped his lean-muscled arms around you from behind. "Only as far as I can throw you. Which, if my estimates are correct, would be four to five feet. But we can find out if you really want to," Sherlock Holmes said, smirking mischievously.
You swallowed nervously. "Uh, nope. No... I'm good," you said, shifting a little.
Sherlock winked at you. "So, are you ready?"
"No," you said, feeling slight panic.
Sherlock snorted, pressing his lips to your ear. "It'll be fine, my dear," he said, his British accent pleasant to your ear. "Now just grab it."
You reached a tentative hand back, and almost immediately jerked away.
"Now, now," the Brit chided you, clucking his tongue. "Don't be a... What is it you Americans say?"
"Wimp," you offered without thinking.
"Don't be a wimp," Sherlock said.
"Hey!" you protested, narrowing your eyes when he chuckled.
"Try again," your companion directed you.
This time, when you grabbed it, you didn't release it. Your touch was light, exploring the thick length of it. "It's bigger than I remember," you said, trying not to sound fearful.
You could feel Sherlock smile against your neck, where he had buried his face. "Are you sure you even remember it? It's been a long time since we did this last," he purred.
"Maybe I blanked when we last did this," you muttered, trying to concentrate on his arms around you, and not the ...thing (you didn't know what else to call it) ... in your hand.
"Because it was just that much fun?" the police consultant teased, nipping your ear playfully.
"Uh ... something like that," you said, attempting to sound sure.
You frowned when your body shook from Sherlock's laughter, letting you know that he saw through your facade and took no offense.
You thought he was a little odd for that, but said nothing.
"You remember what to do though, correct?" Sherlock asked when his chuckles had subsided.
You scowled in irritation. "Oh please. I'm not that much of an amateur," you grumbled, fingers twitching around the thing.
"I'm just checking, my dear," he said, but you could hear amusement in his raspy voice.
It was silent for a long while, in which neither of you moved.
After about five minutes, Sherlock cleared his throat. "So, my dear, do you want to get on with it?"
You couldn't seem to make your hand move, and take that last step.
"I'll get there eventually," you said, your voice once again nervous.
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Well, you see, my dear, it's uncomfortable the way you're holding it," he said lightly.
You made your hand move slightly, so that the butt of the gun was no longer digging into the police consultant's hip.
"Now withdraw it all the way," he encouraged you.
You hefted the large gun up, so that it was held in front of you, between finger and thumb.
"You're not holding it correctly, you know," Sherlock said with amusement.
You tried to adjust your grip on the gun, so that you were holding it properly, but it was a big gun, bigger than you were used to.
Sherlock stretched his arms out, so that his hands were over your own pair, his arms aligned with yours, and his tall, leanly-muscled body resting against your tense frame.
"Just pull the trigger," he whispered in your ear, helping to guide you as you lifted the gun to eye-level, aiming at the target across the room in your lane of the firing range.
Your eyes involuntarily slid shut, and you pulled the trigger, immediately screeching at the loud blast that echoed through the room. You hadn't put on the earmuffs, an unwise decision, but you had put on the goggles.
"Is it done?" you asked, your eyes still tightly shut.
Sherlock laughed, making both of your bodies shake. "Look where you hit it," he told you.
You forced your eyes open, and stared at the target. The bullet had cropped the bottom right corner of the paper.
"Closer than you were last time, when we came two months ago," he said encouragingly.
You couldn't help but feel a little proud of yourself, and was about to fist pump or hug Sherlock, when the gun in your hand went off again, a result of your finger accidentally twitching.
The two of you immediately ducked as a reaction, and you held your hands over your ears, dropping the gun on the ground next to you.
You looked up apologetically and a little more fearfully at the police consultant, who was frowning at you, his intelligent gray eyes studying your shaking form.
"I think we're done with this whole shooting practice arrangement," Sherlock said, standing and offering you a hand.
You took it, trying not to reveal how relieved you felt.
Sherlock pulled you against him, sliding his arms around your waist as you buried your face in the crook of his neck. He lowered his lips to your hair, kissing you lightly.
"For now, anyway," he added, and laughed when you tried to pull away from him in fury. He grabbed you again, and hauled you closer, kissing you long and hard.
"Don't think I'm going to go easy on you, my dear," Sherlock said, winking as he squeezed you against him.
~2 Weeks Later~
"Remind me what to do?" you pleaded.
Sherlock was still trying to mentor your gun-fearing self in the ways of gun-toting, believing it was necessary for your personal protection.
"Withdraw the gun from its holster on my belt. You'll be wearing your own soon enough," he said from his position behind you.
You reached back and grabbed for it.
Immediately, Sherlock stiffened, though you were oblivious to his reaction.
"Yes?" you asked, knowing something was wrong, your fingers frozen where they were gripping the thing.
"...That's the wrong gun..."