Reviews please!

So this is how it feels to be vacant.

John thought walking back from work one night. It had been a week since the incident at the tunnel and there had been no more communication from Sherlock. There wasn't supposed to be any. John told him so every time something or someone reminded him of Sherlock, which was almost every time.

John's sofa reminded of Sherlock.

Two couple's having coffee on the next table reminded of Sherlock.

Darkness reminded of Sherlock.

Any homeless man on the street reminded of Sherlock.

Food reminded of Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson reminded of Sherlock.

Alleys reminded of Sherlock.

Dreams reminded of Sherlock.

Mist reminded of Sherlock.

John was constantly bumping into something or another in his waking life and in dreams that reminded of Sherlock. That man seemed to have taken a permanent residence in John's subconscious.

At least he has a home now, virtually. John thought with a sad smile.

Everyday seemed to be identical to the one that passed. John went through them mechanically. Nothing touched him. Nothing bothered him. He was numb and he was starting to get used to it.

Okay, so he had fallen for a bad guy. Okay, his feelings were played with. Okay he had helped a person out of compassion and was treated like trash. Okay, he was broken. Everything was okay as long as he was numb. Because he knew that under this numbness he was actually coping up with a cold fury that threatened to rip his life apart if he didn't control it. Nothing could be done now. Letting his anger out would cause further damage to his life and those who were around him, fighting Sherlock would be like fighting against his own shadow. Sherlock knew how to vanish, he didn't exist for many people and he could ebb like the mist. There was simply no use.

John was returning from his evening stroll which he took every now and then after dinner when the rain started. Blissfully numb John didn't try to hide or run back home. His home still a few blocks away. Friendly pitter-patter suddenly turned into pouring ice cold and shot needles of cold into his body. Head ducked, hands under arms John picked up his pace a bit now. Though the physical sensations of being pierced with icy needles were a welcome change from the piercing pain in his heart, he didn't want to aggravate his misery by catching cold or worse contract pneumonia. He was a doctor after all.

After a deafening thunder and blinding lightning John saw three dark figures huddling in a nearby backstreet. There were two huge men and one lanky, tall, wearing…

John ran towards them without a second thought as soon as he could make out the appearance of the one attacked.

He was right in time.

One of the huge men had a rope around Sherlock's neck and was pulling him by it while the other one was kicking him viciously. Sherlock was trying desperately to yank the bond from his neck but couldn't concentrate on it for the constant kicking. A man like Sherlock should not be requiring so much effort from two men double his size. But then…

As the man who was kicking tried to head in Sherlock's stomach he almost jumped up his lower body in the air and kicked the head both his leg. The action took a fraction of a second but the effect made the man stagger back and crash on the opposite wall. Doing something like that while your throat is still in a death knot requires not only strength but also technique.

Seeing his mate fall the other man tightened his grip on Sherlock's throat only to be interrupted by John who suddenly slammed into him with full force. Being preoccupied with Sherlock the man didn't notice John stealthily coming until he hit him full force. The shock and force made the man stumble and fall heavily on his side drawing a cry from him. Sherlock had noticed John but there was no time to waste as the one who was kicking Sherlock had recovered and now attacked Sherlock in full force. Sherlock was rubbing his neck wheezing lightly while he had stood up to face John when the man jumped at him. But it seemed that while looking at John Sherlock had two other pair of eyes fixed on the activities of his attackers as he just in time turned and punched the man in his stomach with full force. As the man staggered Sherlock gave another blow to his jaw probably breaking it. As a final touch he yanked the man's foot from under and twisted it in a way that it made a snapping sound and the man howled in pain. The companion whom John had shoved was up on his feet by then but he made a wiser choice watching his mate's fate and ran. Sherlock stood looking at John intently, panting.

John was too dazed to move for a few moments. It was not every day that he got himself into such an action sequence. He knew his thought was morbid but he couldn't help thinking that it was rather an amazing experience.

And then. There was Sherlock.

The thought reminded John of certain unpleasant things, most importantly that he shouldn't be there. He turned and started to walk away.

Only to be grabbed by shoulders and pinned to the damp wall by two strong hands. It was still pouring and he was soaked. It was so cold that he felt his blood had gone cold. He felt his teeth slightly chattering.

He looked up to the man holding him to face an icy glare. Rage emanated from every feature of the man in front of him. The man he had just now practically saved from being strangled.

"Why do you keep doing this?" the man asked, his voice still husky but there was no mistaking his fury.

God damn him! I just saved his bloody life! He has not one bone of gratitude in him.

John wriggled to free himself but found it impossible. He tried to push the man away but instead he came closer.

"Let me go." He said through gritted teeth.

The hold only got stronger and he winced in pain.

"Why do you keep saving me?" The man hissed.

John felt his breath on his face. He was so cold, yet he felt warmth uncurling at the base of his spine.

Seeing there was no way out he sighed resignedly and said.

"Because I have to."

The grip loosened a fraction but not enough.

"Why?" A whisper.

Because you god damn played with me and I took it for real, because I can never not even now stand and watch you get what you really deserve, because I care.

John tried to push away his hands again. This time with much more force. He wanted to bruise the man too. The man noticed the rage emanating from John.

He came closer.

And closer still.

John jerked his head to the side as soon as he understood his intention.

"Let me go." He said firmly.

"Tell me why."

"I'll scream."

"By all means."

"I'll tell the police."

"You could visit me more often then. In the custody."

"I don't want anything to do with you anymore. You deserve none of this. You were right, it was sheer misfortune that I crossed your path. You're the filthiest human being I've ever come into contact with. I should and would rather let you die the next time you're in danger."

John could hardly comprehend what was coming out of his mouth. All he knew that the rage which he was so cautiously hiding under his numbness was coming out in full force, on the man who was the cause of it.

The grip loosened further. The hands retreated. The glare became soft, affected, melancholy. The lips quirked up in a rueful smile.

"You're not just kind but a brave man Dr Watson. Your realization is correct. Hold onto it. It will keep you safe from me."

The long dark form retreated with a last look of longing and despair.

John stood in the rain shivering watching him disappear.

Yet again.