I stayed up all night writing this with my bestie Kelty's help for a 30 day writing prompt challege. Because I love her and she is so sweet to me I dedicate this one to her 33

I don't own Sherlock, but I love it!

Enjoy!

...

Sherlock had never considered himself a needy man. In fact, it was by definition of a high functioning sociopath that he not be. Sherlock was a self-sufficient loner and he preferred it that way. Or at least, that's how he used to be. John had changed that hadn't he?

Yes, John Watson came into Sherlock's life first as a highly-understanding flat mate, but quickly turned into what could only be considered Sherlock's one and only friend. John, who was too quick to trust. John, who was loyal to a fault. John, who was capable of loving anyone, even a sociopath.

Sherlock hadn't anticipated his level of attachment to the doctor. But, looking back on it he really should have. How could he not have fallen for the man who made his every day seem bearable? John had walked into Sherlock's life and filled the void Sherlock didn't even know he had.

Suddenly, it didn't take a body dragged up out of the Thames to excite the consulting detective. No, now all he wanted and needed was to be curled up into the warmth that was his Watson. Strong arms and gentle hands holding him close on dreary rain-soaked nights. The measured circadian rhythm of John's heartbeat seemed to pulse though him and kept the unrelenting and sometimes daunting clockwork that was his mind at bay.

John would hum his contentment as he carded his fingers though Sherlock's curls and Sherlock would bury his face in the soft plush of John's well-worn jumper. A pleasured sigh would escape him as he thought to himself how not even his poison wielding, antiquities smuggling, bomb-toting, effeminate arch nemesis could make him want to leave this bliss.

In the end, it wasn't Moriarty. It wasn't Mycroft, Lestrade or Queen and country that took John away from him. It was a strange twist of fate (if you believe in that sort of thing) that stole him away.

John shouldn't have even been there.

He had only gone out as a favor to Sherlock.

When John didn't return home in a timely manner as always, carton of milk in hand while he spouted off complaints about the auto-tellers, Sherlock began to worry. In retrospect, Sherlock should have just called Lestrade at this point. Instead Sherlock sent a text to John's phone.

Hurry home, I need you back. SH

After 15 minutes Sherlock sent another text on the off chance that John didn't receive the first. But, at John's continued lack of response, Sherlock began to panic. 'Call your brother' Sherlock's brain screamed, 'Mycroft is always watching, he'll know what to do.'

Unfortunately, big brother hadn't been watching this time and some imbecilic employee of the government had lost track of John after he climbed into the back of a cab. By Sherlock's calculations if John left the grocer at half past ten and it was now pushing midnight, he should be within a fifteen-kilometer radius.

Sherlock bolted from the flat into pouring rain and ran the route he knew John would've taken to the market. It wasn't unlike John to have taken a cab home to avoid the weather. Now it was just a matter of figuring out where the bloody cabbie took his John.

John would've noticed being taken off route and would've voiced his concern. But, if he had unknowingly gotten into an illegal cab he could be anywhere. The panic Sherlock had previously been feeling was nothing compared to the icy dread that enveloped him as he stood helplessly in the downpour.

What was he supposed to do now?

John would know.

Sherlock needed John to help him think.

He needed John.

It wasn't until a firm hand clasped down on Sherlock's shoulder that he realized he had been wandering aimlessly though out the streets of London in search of his partner. Sherlock didn't want to look up into face of his brother, he didn't want to hear the words coming from Mycroft's mouth.

The body of Dr John Watson had been found several kilometers east of the Baker Street. He had suffered a severe beating and 3 bullet wounds to the chest. Mugging, no trace of the suspects.

Mycroft, being the responsible older brother he was, took Sherlock home and after getting him into a change of dry clothes and tucking him into a warm blanket on the couch, stepped out of the room to make a call to ensure that John's case was being properly handled. It was in this moment of solitude that Sherlock thought to reach for his phone, but could not find it. It wasn't in the pockets of the pants he was wearing or the pants he had just taken off. Nor was it in any of the pockets of his sopping wet jacket hanging near the door.

After a short and slightly feverish search of the apartment Sherlock found his phone tucked between the couch cushions. Unlocking the screen he found one missed message.

No need to worry, be home soon. Love JW

...

I know, depressing fic was depressing, please leave a review and lemme know what you think ;) how else will I learn?