Sherlock and Watson in the darkroom are hanging up.
To be precise, only Watson, who was checking his hand/gun, was hanging up. Sherlock was sitting huddled up, with his hands clasped against his chin, wandering around in his mind palace.
"There are two magazines left..." Watson, who had fired a few shots in a small battle before hiding in the dark room, counted the remaining bullets. "There is still one in the gun."
He changed the magazine, put the replaced bullet back into his pocket, and knocked on his head.
...Okay, I don’t know what these things are, but they will die after being shot in the fatal part with a gun. Sherlock seems to have a clue on how to get out, so there is no need to worry at all---He’s so big!
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