A/N This (more than 100 words) drabble is dedicated to one of my readers Destined627. She gave me a lot of inspiration for this chapter. Thanks for the great reviews and hope you enjoy this one.

"Stay with me, John. Please. Don't go."

She was finally awake, she came back to him, and he did as she asked. His body's request for a soft mattress to lie on was ignored. Her doe eyes stared at him imploringly and he couldn't deny her anything. So he sat by her side in an armchair by her bed, holding her hand while she drifted in and out of sleep. He was so exhausted, that even he was able to get a few hours' rest.

For the entire duration of her hospital stay he was there, every night, to make sure she was okay, to make sure she felt safe. That's what he told himself. He couldn't admit that he needed to be there. He needed to see her. Needed to be near her.

He couldn't admit that something new was swallowing him up, something oddly familiar that he swore never to feel again. And he was surprised that these feelings were mutual. His need fed hers, and on and on it went, in a circle. It became stronger every day and they each drew strength from the other.

He allowed himself a setback, a slip up, a mistake. She fell into slumber one night and he pressed a kiss to her temple on impulse. His lips rested there, near her brow and in that moment he felt different. He gazed at her, looking so restful in slumber with a smile on her face and seeing her at peace touched something inside him.

It was terrifying to feel this way. To want, to need, and feel it in return. He shouldn't have it. He didn't deserve it.

Did he?

And so he was running. Chest heaving, pulse racing, lungs burning. He was running.

He knew.

He was running from her. He was running from her smile. The twinkle in her eye. The look of anticipation on her face when he walked into the room.

It was a lie.

He was running from himself.

He was running from the sound of his name on her lips and the way his heart skipped when she said it.

He missed the touch of her skin, helping her sit up in bed in the hospital. He missed helping her to stand, to walk. He missed wiping the sweat from her brow whenever she struggled to do something without his help.

He missed the soft hint of jasmine in his nostrils. The adorable knot between her brows, a sign of her growing frustration. He missed the softness of her breathing as she slept. He missed who he became when he was around her, but still he was running.

Miles and miles he covered mentally, trying to push thoughts of her out of his mind.

By day he protected numbers, fired bullets, dealt blows and saved lives. He made sure every waking moment was filled with activity, so his thoughts could not drift to her.

He played often with Bear in the park, Frisbees, balls, whatever toys he could find. The dog loved the attention. Evenings were spent with Finch in the library, meetings with Fusco and he'd taken to spending more time in the bar a few blocks from his place.

A few beers would dull the ache a little.

He would go home and lock the door behind him. But no amount of distraction or alcohol could put distance between him and the memory of moments spent with her. They came at him like a tidal wave. He felt as if he was trying to outrun the sea.

But it was hopeless. The current of emotion that flowed had swelled, and was threatening to overcome him.

He would wake out of sleep and her name would be on his lips. Images of her in the alley plagued him; he hadn't gotten there in time.

Tonight was no different. He sat at the edge of his bed and reached for his cell phone. He dialed her number, but couldn't make himself hit 'send'.

He knew this couldn't go on forever. Soon she would want answers. But what could he say when he had no answers for himself?

How could he explain that he felt as if he were drowning?