Most people will never know the sound of a heart breaking.
It is not the sound of tears falling, sobs tearing out of a worn throat, pathetic whimpers coming from bruised lips.
Its glass shattering, shards falling out of a broken chest, never to be put back together.
At least not as a whole, not pure and definitely not the same.
John looks at Sherlock, bruised from his punches, kneeling down, not looking at him because John said so, because those eyes can cut a man, can make him weep and hurt more than any knife or gun could.
John shifts and Sherlock shifts. He stands up and kneels in front of him, places his hands on his face to tilt it up and finally after months of just dreaming, those beautiful eyes look at him and John almost snarls possessive, because Sherlock is his, not Irene's or Mycroft's or that damn Moriarty's.
John almost kisses him, but no not yet, he needs to earn it. He needs to feel what he felt during those 18 months of pure hell, of agonizing moments in his bed, smelling the sheets and wishing the scent was there. His therapist sees them as friends, brothers but he knows better.
Lovers do this, but they're not lovers, not until Sherlock learns to not run off.
John stands up and he's about to leave, but a whimper from the man behind him stops him.
He turns around quickly and leans down, leaves a small kiss on Sherlock's purple cheek.
As he closes the door behind him, he hears it.
He shakes his head, clutches his chest and keeps walking.
There is glass on the floor behind him.