The man ran up the stairs leading to his house. The pursuer was on his heels. He opened the front door and attempted to shut it behind him but it was thrown back open. He scurried to his feet and ran through the hall. He knocked over the lamp trying to block the invader's path. He made his way to the bathroom and locked the door behind him. He could hear the invader from the other side trying to break down the door as he frantically looked for something to use as a weapon. The door gave way, letting the intruder within spitting distance. The grabbed the air freshener and began spraying the intruder's eyes. The intruder stumbled back, rubbing his eyes. The man tried to make his way passed him but was grabbed around the neck. He struggled to get free but was in a tight pin. The invader pulled out a knife as tears rolled down the man's cheeks and he closed his eyes. With a quick movement, the blade slit across the man's neck, spurting blood onto the wall. The invader waited a minute before dropping the lifeless body onto the floor. He used the blood on the wall and wrote, "Come out and play, John Watson" with a smiley face dripping inside the 'o' in Watson.
-oOo-
It was weeks since Sherlock's suicide. Watson would walk through the house and look at all of Sherlock's things. Mrs Hudson had helped him pack up all Sherlock's belongings and were now packed in boxes near the corner of the room. The apartment looked strange with the open space. John sat down at his desk and would stare at his blog. He hadn't written since that day.
A call suddenly came in from Lestrade. John saw the id on his phone and pushed ignore. He got up from the table and was in the kitchen when he heard Mrs Hudson come in.
"Some people are here to see you. They wouldn't take no for an answer."
Lestrade walked in with sergeant Donovan.
"All the nerve coming here. After what you've done." John rushed towards Donovan. Lestrade held him back preventing him from hitting her, or worse. Donovan excused herself and after awhile John settled down, "What are you doing here. I can't be of much help and I'm not keen on doing so."
"We aren't here for your assistance," began Lestrade, "There's been a murder in Brixton, this message was found in the victim's blood." Lestrade handed a photo of the crime scene. John shook his head, "Could be any John Watson." Lestrade frowned, "This is serious John, this man's killer maybe after you next."
"I don't see the connection to me really besides my name. Thanks for the warning though."John went over and sat on the couch. He was hoping that Lestrade would catch the hint that he should leave.
"I know you're upset about Sherlock's death." Lestrade began.
John chuckled, "You knew Sherlock way before I did, but how is it that you can lose faith in him so easily after all he has done for you!" His voice rose and he began to shout, but his voice cracked at the end. Lestrade said nothing. There wasn't anything to say. With a sigh, the detective inspector left, leaving John staring at the silly hat that had been a gift from Scotland Yard a month ago. It now sat on the top in the box. John's eyes began to blur and before he knew it, he was crying. He cried himself to sleep, flashing back to Sherlock's fall.