S T E A D Y

"A fighter—his hands couldn't have shaken at all…acclimatized to violence…strong moral principle…a history of military service…nerves of steel." Sherlock, "A Study in Pink"

His hands were steady. Whether wrapped around the cold grip of his pistol or delicately on a scalpel, they were as still as a stone. When danger twisted round him, and Death whispered close, he was solid, controlled. He was calm when the dying fell around him, and with his scarred, killer's hands, he brought life. He balanced healing and pain. He carried the fallen to safe haven and paid for his courage in blood. The men around him knew him, and willingly laid their lives before him to protect him, knowing he would help them if he could. And he did, but sometimes it was not enough. He found that that was where he belonged—amid the blood, pain, and death, as healer and killer.

His hands were steady.

"Seen some trouble, too."

"Yes. Enough for a lifetime."

"Care to see a bit more?"

"Oh, God, yes."

He stumbled; staggered; fell. Bled. Died.

"If you were dying-if you'd been murdered-in your last few seconds, what would you say?"

"Please, God, let me live."

"Use your imagination!"

"I don't have to."

They brought him back. Cut him up; fixed him. Pieced him back together, as he had for so many others.

He wasn't whole. Parts of him had been lost. Permanently, they said. Sent him back to England. Back home, they lied. Home was the battlefield.

'Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?'

He was adrift. London, swirling with activity, purpose—and he, alone, lost. He knew the city like he had once known his own hands. Both were alien now, unfamiliar, unsteady were he had expected to find solidity. But there was nothing there for him now, no one. He was uncertain, as he had not been since he first joined the Army. He wandered the streets and parks on his faltering leg. He met his psychologist, said what he was expected to say. He thrashed his way through the nights, moved slowly through his days. Avoided anyone who might know him.

"Oh, breathing. Breathing's boring."

He offered his phone. It was common courtesy (uncommon these days) but he never expected what had followed.

Blood. Death. Pain.

"… I said dangerous, and here you are."

Home.

His hands were steady. Wrapped around his pistol, as still as a stone. Danger twisted, Death whispered. The bullet roared. He was in control. The killer fell before him, and with his steady, healer's hands, he brought death. He balanced rescue and murder. He caught the stumbling before he fell and led him to safe haven and paid for that safety in guilt. The man before him he did not know, but he followed him willingly, knowing his greatness and hoping for goodness. He found that that was where he belonged—amid the blood, pain, and death, as healer and killer.

"Not bored now, are you?"

His hands were steady.

A/N: Okaayy…Sherlock. Love it. I mean, it's brilliant. Perfectly cast. It took me half of each episode, most times, to figure out who the killer was, or what the twist would be, which is far longer than normal for me. I adore this series, and can't wait for part two.

I really got caught on the odd contrast in John Watson's hands. His hands could tell you the story of his entire life. I think Sherlock is awesome, but I love John too—John, who is content in the background, supporting, humanizing.

Sherlock's not mine. Quotes are from "A Study in Pink."

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Thanks!

~Sylvr