John had thought he was too tired for violence, but the note of eager anticipation in Sherlock's voice proved him wrong. He whirled, his fist landing high up on one sharp cheekbone (hard not to think of Irene then, I'd avoid your nose and teeth too, as he had for months, wondering if she knew, if she cared that he was gone) fiercely satisfied that he'd managed to surprise Sherlock into shutting up.

"I'm not doing this," he said quietly, rubbing his knuckles with the other thumb. "I'm not reliving this, this horror for you so you can treat it like just another case. It's not just another case. I know you've never given a damn for the victims' families, tact or sympathy or sentiment or whatever. But this time you'd better find it in you to care, because the victim was you, and the family was me, and I can't, Sherlock. I can't."

He didn't turn, didn't try to keep leaving. He just stood there, his hands clasped, looking at Sherlock with a wordless warning.