John Watson enjoyed taking walks. They allowed him to think and get away from his flat mate who was currently preoccupying himself with ranting about anything and everything to stave off his boredom. It's not that he didn't like Sherlock but the man could become completely unbearable when he didn't have anything to keep him distracted. It had been a week since their last case was concluded and the man was beginning to drive him mad.

As John walked on he stumbled and found himself faced with a limp body crumpled on the ground. His instincts as a doctor kicking in, he immediately checked for a pulse and was dismayed to discover that there was none. The body turned out to be that of a young man, barely even in his twenties, with blond hair now caked with partially dried blood. Now he knows he should have probably called the police but against his better judgement he called Sherlock who picked up quite quickly.

"What is it John? It better be interesting." said the thoroughly agitated man upon picking up.

"Well, it's a body. Quite young too." John answered, feeling a pang of pity for the young soul.

"Really now? Unnatural death? Where are you?"

"I was taking a walk. I'm near the park and the body is off to the side away from the path." As John gave his flat mate the directions he noticed movement from near the body. He turned and even though he knew Sherlock was rambling the words were blocked out by a sudden realization.

The body was breathing.

When he finally got over his shock he could hear Sherlock trying to get his attention through the phone. "S-sorry... We may not have a body after all..."

"I'll be there soon." With that said there was a click as his partner hung-up.

Around ten minutes later the awaited for consultant detective arrived and looked at the young man on the ground. "He's breathing."

"I noticed that." John replied. "When I found him he was cold to the touch and had no pulse but now he's breathing and has a fairly normal body temperature."

Sherlock walked closer to the not-actually-a-corpse taking in various details. "Young. Probably nineteen or twenty but the suit suggests otherwise. Fancy but well-worn and obviously used on a regular basis. Threadbare around the coughs indicated that he has to sit for long amounts of time but does not enjoy staying still. The degree of the wear is equal on both cuffs so it would seem that he is ambidextrous. His calloused hands show signs of lifelong manual labor." As the detective moved to check the pockets of the young man for any identification there was a flash of movement and the steel barrel of a gun pressed to his temple.

"Thirty-two caliber, American made, steady grip... You seem quite used to using guns." There was fear apparent in the young man's blue eyes as he lowered the gun and cast his gaze away. "Expecting someone else?"

"S-sorry..." The young mans American accent was clear despite the softness of his voice and his body language showed confusion. "Where am I...?"

"Where the bloody hell is that annoying sod?!" Arthur grumbled as he paced in Mycroft's office. "I've been waiting for two hours and he still hasn't shown up!"

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his head to ease his slowly developing headache, courtesy of the green-eyed man's yelling. "It's not exactly strange for him to be late Arthur..."

"It's disrespectful is what it is! He's been late but this is unacceptable and he's not even answering his damned phone!"

"Please calm down. He might have fallen asleep. We both know he hates flying if he's not the pilot and gets very distraught."

"He could have called. That ungrateful little bastard." Arthur continued to grumble.

"Please, just go home and relax. I'm sure he will turn up tomorrow and if not we can find him."

"Fine." Arthur said as he gathered up his supplies and left the building, still mumbling under his breath about "stupid American"s and "annoying git"s.

The night sky was spotted with clouds that blocked out the few stars that could be seen due to the lights of the city. Shadows made by the street lamps stretched along the path as he walked onward, through the streets of London. He knew Mycroft had a point but he wasn't going to let Alfred just show up whenever he fancied. It was disrespectful and he had raised him better than that.

However, there was also a small persistent knot of worry nagging at him. He did raise America better than that and if he didn't show up tomorrow there was probably more to it than just the teen's usual forgetfulness. He was obnoxious and ridiculous at times but he wasn't insincere. It just wasn't in his nature to be spiteful towards people.

Upon arriving home, England sunk into his chair with a book and hoped to read his worries away. Hoped that everything was alright and he would be interrupted by a happy-go-lucky blond. Hoped that he was just overreacting.

Wishes don't come true though.

Sorry for a short first chapter but the others will be longer. Also, the name is based off of "Silent Spring" by Massive Attack.