Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Lancer is owned by whoever holds the copyright. It's not me but I'd buy it if they'd sell it and I could afford it lol

Synopsis: Just a little Johnny introspection at the end of Warburton's Edge.

Unbetaed so all mistakes are mine. I hope you all enjoy. Char :-)

Blood on his Hands (1/1): 

Blood on his hands. It fascinated and revolted him at the same time. How clearly it made the little ridges of his fingers stand out white against the bright red. Even in the darkness, he could see it. Blood -- the liquid of life -- seeping out onto the hard packed earth, a harbinger of death. He noticed that his hand shook slightly. It's funny, the weight of the blood on his hands was far heavier than the weight of the gun he had held minutes before.  

He hated killing a friend. But Isham pushed him ... "I told you, nobody guns my old man. I told ya Isham." Now, there were two more bodies, lives, to stain his soul. He closed his eyes as Murdoch's hand gripped his shoulder, leaning towards his father when he told the man that he had a prodigal son if he still wanted one. That Murdoch still wanted him was more than he could understand. Couldn't he see the blood on his hands? Did it really not matter?

"Come inside, Son."

Son. He did not deserve to be this man's son. Murdoch Lancer was a good, honorable man. What honor did he have? He killed his friend, always killing his own kind. But were they his kind? Really? Or was this mountainous giant beside him his kind? Did he really belong here, to these people, to this family. God he hoped so.

He felt the strong arms of his father gently tugging him up from where he knelt in the dirt by Isham's body. Those same strong arms that had held him protectively only moments before. So inviting and welcoming. He was really wanted here. It was so much more than he deserved. More than he had ever hoped for. A place to belong, to be welcome, to be loved. A place where the blood on his hands did not matter.

That place was Lancer. It always was and now he knew, it always would be. And it was not the ranch, not the land, but the man who made it home. Murdoch Lancer. His father was his home and his father wanted him. Yes, the prodigal son was home to stay.

The end.