A/N Hey My Lovelies!!!! So...starspangledfeels challenged me to write a oneshot where John lost his hearing in the war, and has to cope with feeling broken and useless, and how he comes to terms with his disability....angst warning ahead!!! also a tiny SMUT WARNING!! nothing major, but it's there...Good luck babies!!! Hope this meets your challenge friend ;) Enjoy<3
The shattering of brick next to his face was all the warning John got that something was wrong.
His hands flew to his head and he hit the pavement, panic flooding his veins as he tried to figure out what was happening.
Sherlock!
He had to do something, anything, but what could he do?
It's not like he could hear what was happening.
Someone gripped his shoulders and dragged him back, sending his panic into overdrive. He squirmed, trying to escape, but stilled his actions when his hand caught on a familiar-feeling scarf just above his head.
The hands gripping him disappeared, and Sherlock suddenly appeared before him, concern and terror clear on his face. Relief hit John hard enough to make him lose focus.
He's okay.
No thanks to you.
Sherlock was saying something, the fear in his eyes growing with every second John failed to respond. He focused his spinning mind long enough to read Sherlock's lips, catching the desperate pleas.
"John! Are you hurt? Please talk to me!" John nodded, catching sight of the bruise forming on Sherlock's jaw and reaching for his friend. Sherlock brushed his hand away, shaking his head as though it was nothing to worry about. "It's nothing. I've apprehended the suspect, no need to worry-" John stilled Sherlock's hands, which had started signing what he was saying, and caught his friend's eyes, pain starting to well in his chest.
"I missed another one, didn't I?" John asked, his self-loathing swelling as Sherlock dropped his eyes. He pushed Sherlock away and stood, stalking away just as the flashing lights of New Scotland Yard's officers lit up the night.
He knew Sherlock wouldn't stop him, he never did. So he kept walking, not sure where he was heading, but not caring either way.
When he eventually wound up back at Baker Street, he had made up his mind.
He was going to leave. Sherlock shouldn't have to worry about him missing suspects and getting himself killed.
Sherlock deserved more than a broken soldier with PTSD and no hearing.
As soon as he was through the door, he knew something was wrong. Sherlock wasn't sprawled out on the sofa like he always was, the lights were still off and the heavy Belstaff was lying in a heap in the middle of the floor.
The light to the kitchen flickered on to reveal Sherlock, his shirt untucked and hair a mess.
His eyes were red and swollen and there was moisture on his cheeks.
"You're leaving." John could feel the pain in the signed words and he closed his eyes, heaving a sigh and nodding, fighting the tears that tried to spill.
He felt the familiar warmth of his best friend appear before him and tried to back away, only to find the door pressed against his back.
A large hand came to rest on his chest, not pushing, just resting there.
