So stay there
Cause I'll be coming over
And while our blood's still young
It's so young it runs
ix
They found John the next morning, hunched on the ground and clearly in shock. His hands were shaking and he was covered in blood. Lestrade ushered him into the ambulance and he was fixed up on site. A badly cut ear, a small head wound and a bullet embedded in his shoulder. When they asked him what was wrong, he says 'nothing'. When Lestrade asked him he said 'I think something might be right'. Because he knew whose voice he heard that night, he knew exactly who it was. Impossibly, like magic- but he knew such things don't exist. He couldn't feel happy just yet though. He was simply shaken. Shaking.
There were no more murders for a week, no more invisible hit-men, and in the end John realised he is just as bored there as he would be anywhere else.
"I'm going home," he told Lestrade.
"Where?" Lestrade asked.
John frowned. "The flat."
"You said home," Greg pointed out.
"Yeah?" John shrugged, not getting the point.
"Nothing," Greg said with a shrug and let him walk away. Let him walk home alone.
He knew for a fact that John Watson had not called 221b Baker Street 'home' for over three years.