John only had eyes for that gun. Sherlock would be furious with him for risking his life over it, but what did it matter? Joan had died despite their best efforts. Being careful wasn't working-- no, there was no denying it. The gun was John's key to wrenching some kind of victory out of the jaws of defeat. He could almost actually see himself winning, possibly, if he had it. He'd always been an excellent shot, and he could just hole up with Sherlock and-
Well. Hypotheticals had never been his strong suit. He'd work all that out once he had the cool security of the revolver in his hand.

Knife out, he darted through the tangle of tributes- until his path was suddenly blocked by one brandishing a spear. He slashed out in defense, heart pounding- god, but he didn't want to die. He didn't. It never got easier, not even a little bit...