John has a gun pointed at his head.

He's not too happy about that, but it's not his number one priority just now. Because Sherlock's got hold of the gunman's partner, and his white-knuckled grip on the man's throat is the only thing keeping the criminal from taking up a new career as a Rorschach test on the pavement six stories down.

"Sherlock," John says carefully, then pauses to grimace because it bloody well hurts when someone grinds a piece of sharp-edged metal into his temple. "Please don't kill that man." It's a struggle not to slug the wanker who's shoving the muzzle of a weapon into his head when John is trying to save his partner's life, ta very much. Not, mind you, so much out of a healer's encompassing love for humanity. It's mostly because he'd prefer that Sherlock not shove a man off a building.

"I won't," Sherlock says as coolly as if he weren't literally holding someone's life in the palm of his hand, "if Renault there lets you go."

The gunman—John had thought his name was Renoir—snarls audibly. "You let us go, Holmes, and you'll get your friend here back safe and sound soon as we're shut of you."

Now is not the moment to point out that, judging by the nuclear sunrise lighting Sherlock's eyes, there's nowhere on the planet these two men could run that he wouldn't hunt them down. That knowledge warms John's belly. It's been a long time since anyone cared about him like that.

But he still doesn't want to see Sherlock shove someone off a roof. He's fairly certain it wouldn't be the first life his friend has ever taken. He's equally sure, Donovan's gibes be damned, it would be his first murder. Assuming the fellow doesn't choke to death first. John's a big enough man to admit when he's impressed. It can't be easy to hold a person all but suspended by their neck while managing not to strangle them.

"Sherlock, let him go," John tries again, and this time the wince that follows stems almost entirely from Sherlock's enquiring eyebrow. "Yes, alright, poor choice of words." Renoir—Renault—apparently objects to John's testiness, from the way the front sight bites into his skin. A bead of what's probably blood slides down his face, itching obnoxiously. Naturally, he daren't move his hands. Being a hostage is rubbish. "I'll be fine. You know I will." Trust me, he insists with a lift of his chin.

Sherlock's eyes narrow with the kind of deadly intensity that presages bombs going off. Then, with a twisting heave, he hurls the second man to the safety of the rooftop.

Renoir used to be military. John knows this because a military man is trained to react to sudden, violent movements, just like Renoir—Renault, whatever—does when his pistol twitches, just for a breath, away from John's temple.

John breaks his captor's grip with an elbow to his diaphragm, and then spins to drive a heel viciously into the side of his knee. If it doesn't break, then some ugly things happen to the ligaments. That's the kind of pain that results in a bloke not resisting when you take their gun away.

He takes two paces back and glances at Sherlock, who's got one elegantly shod foot planted between the other guy's shoulders so as not to be disturbed while he takes in the show.

"Before you critique my form," John tells him, "I'd like to point out that I now have a gun."

"I don't have a gun," Sherlock reminds him. "You could give it to me."

If that had ever seemed like a wise idea, the indefinable hint of crazy around Sherlock's eyes just now would convince John otherwise. "No. You'll shoot him."

"I wouldn't kill him."

John doesn't waste his breath vocalizing the negative. Sherlock takes out his frustration with a nasty little kick to Other Guy's neck that puts him down for the count. John shakes his head disapprovingly. If anyone but Sherlock had kicked someone like that, they'd be dead. "Sherlock? What's his name, anyway?"

Sherlock's eyes flick from John to the unconscious partner to the criminal-not-named-after-a-painter, who is groaning and staring at them with the air of a man striving to kill via brainwaves. "Paul Harris. Renault's younger half-brother. "

No need for Sherlock to ask why John wants to know. Because I want to remember who you almost killed for me. When John meets his eyes, Sherlock 'hmphs' and looks away with a little smile on his face.

Which reminds him. John frowns and looks around questioningly. "Hey. Sherlock?" He waits till he's got his flatmate's attention back. "When are the police due?"

"Oh. I suppose about fifteen minutes after you call them."

"Sherlock!"