Title: A Well Deserved Punch in the Face

Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes

Warning: Angst, violence

Rating: PG

Summary: Sherlock's back. And John…well, John isn't quite as happy to see him as he is raving mad.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters nor did I make any profits off of this story.

A Well Deserved Punch in the Face

The crack of bone and cartilage. The *feel* of a nose breaking and crushing under the weight of a fist driven with rage and anger.

The blossoming pain that explodes, but that does nothing to dull the pain of remorse and regret whimpering like a starving child in his heart.

The next punch lands on his right cheek. He feels the bones creak, the muscles scream, and he gives a pained grunt while his body staggers back while fumbling, shaking, unsteady legs jitter madly beneath him. He curls within himself, but stands up straight once more with a bruised body and an aching heart.

"Get out,"

He feels his eyes stings. His lips quiver, and he wants to open them, wants to let the words he had been restraining and holding back for *years* spill out so he can redeem himself, *explain* himself because he can do that, he's *good* at that, *amazing* at it, and if he can only have a minute to think of the words that suddenly try to well up inside him, the *feelings* he had kept bottled up for *so long*…

…But the words that had always wanted to present themselves, forms themselves, so they can be sent, opened, *read*, suddenly die and wither away to ash and dust.

He remains silent.

The harsh intakes of air and barely controlled *fury*. Adrenaline making pupils dilate, muscles quiver, and a heart *race*. The thrum of something alive, something filled to the brim and spilling over like a living bomb, ticking itself down to the last second before utter destruction.

He can only say one thing.

"John,"

And John *yanks* his hair and pulls him down to give a swift uppercut to his chin that makes him nearly black out. The beginning of a livid bruise starts to form with the sensations of burning blood and broken arteries. Sheets and swirls of black dance across his vision before he is kneed square in the stomach.

He drops to the floor, wheezing. Coughing.

And he wonders if John will leave him like this. Bruised and broken as cracked ribs make every hacking, rasping breath an ordeal. With his body pitifully laid across the floor while his heart feels like shattering under the weight of its sorrow and sobbing pleas.

And he practically *tastes* John's fists crack as tensed, muscled fingers twitch and stretch, ready to deal him another devastating blow. He winces inside, but he makes no move to defend himself. Instead, he lays on his side, clutching at his throbbing ribs, but leaving the rest of his body vulnerable.

Leaving his heart vulnerable.

"…How could you?"

And his heart breaks as he smells the salt of tears, hears the cracks of a choked voice, and *feels* the anguish of a man who had thought he had once lost a part of himself.

Sherlock just remains on the ground and whispers, over and over again, the half-broken apologies he had desperately wanted to say after he left John.