A/N: My first Sherlock story and my second fan fiction ever (first being many years ago and forgotten, really) so I'd love reviews!
Prompt from the Sherlock BBC Kink meme: John whump.

After Moriarty's string of phone calls, people attached to ticking time bombs, and series of puzzles, everyone's emotions had been strewn about and they needed time to recuperate. All the events of the past few days had dragged everyone out of their stupor and into the opposite direction of full on awareness. Except for Sherlock Holmes, of course. He was always fully aware of everything, moreso than anyone else, but not when it came to feeling things. He'd been called in on a new case now but the Yard seemed to be a bit out of sorts still. Sherlock had been arguing with Lestrade to get over it, caring about people wasn't going to be the thing to help them. After all, Sherlock did manage to save almost all of them (it wasn't his fault the old lady had tried to help him!) It was a part of the job, Lestrade and even the others should have gotten used to it by now. A week had already gone by and it was starting to interfere with any usefulness Lestrade demonstrated. Sherlock needed him to move on.

"It's all in your mind, it's simple to control!" Sherlock exclaimed, his hands wanting to shake the Detective but instead motioning that way without actually touching him.
"Look Sherlock, we can't all be as emotionless as you and frankly I'm happy to keep it that way."
"Oh, come on, hasn't enough time passed already? The grieving process should be complete by now. It was a few people, not an entire city full! Everyone else made it through."
Lestrade's only response to this comment was a rolling of his eyes. Sherlock definitely had a way with words.

John was within earshot of the conversation and flashed back to a conversation he had had with Sherlock earlier that week regarding his lack of feelings. John had wondered how Sherlock could be so brilliant, understanding how people's emotions played in everything they did, reading everything and everyone so easily; and yet, he couldn't possess any emotions of his own or understand them beyond the chemistry or implications they held. Twelve totally random innocent people had died because of Moriarty's game. John had gotten so angry with Sherlock that morning. He didn't care. He admitted it. He just didn't care. Maybe Donovan was right. Maybe he is a freak.

John was turning away, leaving, his frustration reaching its peak but then he felt the urge to question Sherlock on his motives.

"There are lives at stake," he said as he braced himself on his armchair, "Sherlock. Actual human lives. Jus-just so I know, do you care about that at all?"
Sherlock's eyebrows grew closer together in mild surprise, his hands pinned beneath his jaw, "Will caring about them help save them?"

He stared at John as he said this. He already was solving all the puzzles thrown his way, now John wanted him to care about the people being used for merely for their voice boxes too? You simply cannot have it both ways.

John shook his head, his smile incredulous, "Nope."
"Then I'll continue to not make that mistake," Sherlock responded matter of factly.
"And you find that easy, do you?"
"Yes. Very. Is that news to you?"
"No," he shook his head again, sadly laughing to himself. Sadness that this man could never understand. "No."
Sherlock held his gaze on John, merely lifting his head and after a pause declaring, "I've disappointed you."
John wagged a finger at him, every smile and positive gesture he now made towards Sherlock reeking of irony, frustration and sarcasm. "'S good. That's good deduction. Yeah." John began to turn away, exasperated.
"Don't make people into heroes John. Heroes don't exist and if they did I wouldn't be one of them."

John started walking away from the current crime scene, mulling over the last thing Sherlock had said, still trying to piece it together. Yes, he may not have cared about everyone but the fact still remained, rather than committing crimes, he was the one solving them and that had to count for something.

"There!" Sherlock pulled John over by his shoulders, the unexpected sensation sending tingles down John's spine, knocking him out of his daze. "John, you settle it, you've been shot! Is emotional pain comparable in any way to actual physical pain?"

Lestrade looked between the two, eyebrows furrowed and mouth slightly open, knowing the answer but not wanting to hear it. For once, it was obvious, and for once, Sherlock was the only one who couldn't see it. John stared up at Sherlock wondering how he could be so oblivious.

After a long pause of merely staring into Sherlock's eyes to see if there was any sign of understanding, anything at all, anything beyond the calculated and clinical, John realised there wasn't. So he decided to just get it over with and answer Sherlock. He tried not to think of all the things that had hurt him throughout his life, had hurt him so much more than a gunshot. Everyone forgetting his twelfth birthday, his parent's rejection of Harry at her coming out and their disapproval of his defending her, being rejected of his first romantic proposition, breaking up with his first love when he went off to war, having to endure military life without anyone he truly cared for, nightmares that haunted him almost every night, meeting a madman that hadn't the slightest idea… He pulled himself back, staring straight ahead and quietly said, "Yes." After a beat, he continued walking in the direction he had originally been going in. Sherlock had let him go and was looking after him as confusion spread across his face.

Sherlock hadn't said anything and Lestrade was going over what had just happened in his mind amazed at what Sherlock was missing. He raised his eyebrows and turned away, heading back over to his team to continue the consoling Sherlock had interrupted to instead try and "fix" him. If only Sherlock could just be human for once.