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.

It reminded him of the tender touch Sherlock had offered him after the confrontation with Moriarty in the pool, the first time someone had ever called him out on how broken he was.

What's it like? Having a pet that's damaged goods? Must be a pain, they need so much extra attention.

Moriarty had been right; he was damaged goods. Broken and useless. More trouble than he was worth.

Sherlock had held him that night, their first proper hug. You're not broken. He had signed, almost desperately, against John's chest.

John hadn't believed him, Moriarty's words still echoing through his head almost daily.

Sherlock's fingers shifted, signing something against his chest once more. This one took John too long to understand.

"I. Love. You." John looked up, not willing to accept what Sherlock was trying to say. It wasn't possible, no one, especially not Sherlock Holmes, could love him. He shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks as he felt Sherlock's fingers tighten in his jumper.

He felt the sob that wracked Sherlock's thin frame and nearly crumbled against the taller man. He hated hurting Sherlock, hated cutting his friend with his broken edges.

"You aren't broken." Sherlock signed against his chest again, the desperation clear in his trembling fingers. "I love you." John sobbed, shaking his head again.

He had to make Sherlock see. He was too broken to be loved.

The warm press of soft lips against his own shocked him, but before he could respond, the lips were gone. He opened his eyes to meet Sherlock's, reading the pain in his eyes. There was something else there, taking over the pain, but John wasn't going to accept it.

Loving him would only hurt Sherlock.

"Why?" He signed back against Sherlock's chest, hoping the question would remind the detective of how much loving John would hurt.

He expected Sherlock to back away, to finally understand and let him go.

He didn't expect warm hands cupping his face, guiding his eyes up to meet Sherlock's.

"I'm not worth your love." Sherlock shook his head taking one of John's hands in his and pressed it against his chest, tears falling from his eyes as he pressed his forehead against John's.

"And I'm not worth yours." Sherlock kissed him again, a soft, tender kiss that broke what little was left of his heart.

This kiss was healing, passion, hurt and forgiveness. He felt every fibre of his being burn as there, stuck in the silence of his own body, he heard every unspoken word Sherlock was trying to say.

I love you

You are worth everything to me

You are not broken

I love you

I love you

He leaned into the kiss, the hand still pressed against Sherlock's chest picking up the soft hum the detective made at the action.

Not a word was shared between them as they slowly made their way to Sherlock's bedroom, gently tugging at clothes and trading soft kisses.

Sherlock made sure to kiss every inch of skin that was exposed, every press of his lips against John's flesh offering up another hint as to why he loved him.

Every pass of his lips over the scars that covered John's chest and back brought back pain-filled memories, but this time there was no fear, no flinching as the memory of the IED that took his hearing flashed through his mind.

Every scar that Sherlock traced was a reminder that John had made it out alive, that he was there, in that moment, entwined with the greatest man he had ever known, because he was strong enough to live.

They finished together, one of Sherlock's hands wrapped around their members while the other was gripped tightly in John's.

John had his free hand pressed against Sherlock's chest, his whole body vibrating with the sound that shook the younger man's chest.

As they lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, John's mind suddenly sprung open, Sherlock's words finally hitting home.

"You love me." He stated, signing the words against his new lover's chest, tears slipping down his cheeks as Sherlock nodded, wiping a tear off his cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Why?"

"Because, My Dear Watson, you are my everything." John sobbed, burying his face in Sherlock's neck as he felt the rough edges of his broken heart slowly begin to mend themselves. "I love you." He didn't need to see Sherlock sign the words, he felt the reverberating through the man's chest and into his own soul.

For the first time, John let himself begin to believe those words.

"I love you too."