Sherlock levels the gun, correcting his grip. Both hands. Nice and steady. Briefly he considers doing it, pulling the trigger, putting a round just there, centre of the forehead; why not? It won't keep him up at night. Bit of a mess to clean up, but in the mean time, lovely spray pattern, really brilliant at this angle, and he could examine it top to bottom just to make sure everything's still in place in his head.
Then again, that's not much fun if he already knows the answer.
Even less fun when somebody inevitably gets angry.
"Oh good, I was terribly worried," he says, eyes widening briefly before he lets his face slip back into an expression of distinct unamusement, finger curling around the trigger. Just a bit more pressure. "Of course, I've height, reach, and weight on you, I know you favour your right hand; obvious by your knuckles. I know you've been in your fair share of fights; no matter, so have I. I also know that you're malnourished. If you're any good in a scrap it's only because you're enthusiastic; your size won't permit for much else and you don't move as though you've any formal training. That combined with the way you're addressing suggests lack of disregard for personal safety; tells me everything I need to know."
Vaguely he wonders if the idiot, whoever he is, is going to try to take the gun from him. Likely. Not likely to end well. Could be exciting. "Your comment earlier tells me you're not from the same time range as I am, or you don't think you are; haven't worked out which is true yet but you're not the only one. You're used to looking for food, shelter; you take in your surroundings differently than most, for which I would congratulate you were it not so blatantly obvious that you only do so because you need to. That, I expect, is why you're in my house now. Being provided for does get so terribly boring, hardly matches the thrill of stealing, does it?"
Ah, but there's more! Sherlock raises his eyebrow and nods at Poison. "I also know that a gunshot wound to the lower abdomen is one of the most painful and slowest ways to die, and you should know that when I do miss I tend to miss low. Still want to dance?"
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Then again, that's not much fun if he already knows the answer.
Even less fun when somebody inevitably gets angry.
"Oh good, I was terribly worried," he says, eyes widening briefly before he lets his face slip back into an expression of distinct unamusement, finger curling around the trigger. Just a bit more pressure. "Of course, I've height, reach, and weight on you, I know you favour your right hand; obvious by your knuckles. I know you've been in your fair share of fights; no matter, so have I. I also know that you're malnourished. If you're any good in a scrap it's only because you're enthusiastic; your size won't permit for much else and you don't move as though you've any formal training. That combined with the way you're addressing suggests lack of disregard for personal safety; tells me everything I need to know."
Vaguely he wonders if the idiot, whoever he is, is going to try to take the gun from him. Likely. Not likely to end well. Could be exciting. "Your comment earlier tells me you're not from the same time range as I am, or you don't think you are; haven't worked out which is true yet but you're not the only one. You're used to looking for food, shelter; you take in your surroundings differently than most, for which I would congratulate you were it not so blatantly obvious that you only do so because you need to. That, I expect, is why you're in my house now. Being provided for does get so terribly boring, hardly matches the thrill of stealing, does it?"
Ah, but there's more! Sherlock raises his eyebrow and nods at Poison. "I also know that a gunshot wound to the lower abdomen is one of the most painful and slowest ways to die, and you should know that when I do miss I tend to miss low. Still want to dance?"